The Portable Door (1987)

by Tom Holt

  But it had been a long day, and Paul realised he was dog-tired, and so was she. Even so, when the coffee had come and gone, and the bill had arrived and they’d debated and apportioned it, referred it to committee, given it its second reading and reached a negotiated settlement, it became obvious that neither of them really wanted to go home just yet. It was half-past nine, and Sophie was looking guilty. Paul asked what the matter was.

  “My parents. They’ll be wondering where I am. I ought to phone or something.” Then she yawned, like a small earthquake.

  “Tell you what,” Paul said. “Why don’t you go home, and I’ll come with you. As far as the front door, I mean.”

  She looked at him as if he was crazy, then nodded. “All right,” she said.

  So they did that; and at twenty past ten, on a street

  corner under a lamp-post, in Wimbledon where the shadows are, she said, “Well, see you in the morning, then,” and he said, “See you,” and as he turned to walk back to the Tube station, she leaned forward a little, pecked him on the cheek like a woodpecker, and walked away, leaving him standing perfectly still.

  Bloody hell, Paul thought. Then he started walking.

  He was in such a daze that it was some time before he realised that he wasn’t walking alone. Someone was beside him, keeping step. He looked round.

  He’d never seen her before, but she was easy enough to recognise, even though she wasn’t grinning. Quite the opposite, in fact. She had a grim, unhappy expression on her current choice of face, and she was breathing through her nose.

  “You do realise,” Mr Tanner’s mum said eventually, “that she probably didn’t mean anything by it. Peck on the cheek, could mean anything. French generals do that instead of saluting.”

  Paul didn’t reply.

  “And what about the boyfriend,” she went on, “the radical ceramics weirdo? It wasn’t pecks on cheeks you saw in my stone, remember.”

  “No,” Paul said, “it wasn’t.”

  She scowled. “And besides,” she went on, “you haven’t got a clue. It’s not like the action movies, you realise, where the hero and the girl go through the great and dangerous adventure and then fall into each others’ arms. That’s all dogshit, because you know they haven’t got a bloody thing in common, it’s all just Hollywood; thirty minutes after the credits have stopped rolling, they won’t be able to think of one damn thing to say to each other. And you think I’m a goblin; you don’t know spit about who people are or what they’re like. I can turn myself into Drew Barrymore or Naomi Campbell, but I’m just a first-year compared to you. You can turn something like that into a girl.”

  Paul shook his head. “Not me,” he said.

  “Bullshit. She’s a girl like I’m Drew and Kate and Gwyneth and all those other people who don’t really exist. No wonder our Dennis hired you, you’ve got talent.” She made a curious noise, a sort of soft grunty snuffle. “Shame you don’t use it where it’d be appreciated.”

  “Say what you like,” Paul replied. “It doesn’t make any difference.”

  “Idiot.” She sniffed. “Anyway, that wasn’t what I came to see you about.”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t believe me if you don’t want to,” she said. “I’m just trying to help. Right now, you need help, believe me. Or weren’t you paying attention when young Snotnose did his carpentry solo?”

  It took Paul a few seconds to figure out that ‘young Snotnose’ was Humphrey Wells. “I know what happened,” he said. “And yes, I was absolutely petrified, if you must know.”

  “Well, that shows you’ve got some sense, at least. You want to watch that one, he’s not a very nice person.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Mr Tanner’s mum pulled a face. “All right,” she said, “you reckon the whole lot of them are weird and horrible, and you aren’t that far off, at that. But what I’m saying is, there’s a difference between—well, between young Snotnose and our Dennis, for instance. Sure, our Dennis’s got all the charm of a pigeon turd in your ravioli, but he doesn’t go cutting people in half.” She frowned. “Well, that’s mostly because there’s not much call for stuff like that in the minerals business, and I’m not saying he wouldn’t, if the need arose, or if it suited him, or he felt like it. But you see what I mean,” she added, rather lamely. “Humphrey Wells goes out of his way to do that sort of stuff. That’s the difference.”

  Paul shuddered slightly. “I believe you,” he said. “And thanks for the warning. But I can’t see as how there’s much I can do about it.”

  “There isn’t, you’re right. I’m just warning you, that’s all.”

  “Thanks very much.”

  “You’re upset,” said Mr Tanner’s mum. “Can’t say as I blame you. I’d be upset if I was in your shoes, in fact I’d be climbing the walls. In actual fact,” she went on, “if I was as deep in the shit as you are, I’d be through that portable door and back six months, faster than a rat up a conduit. I wouldn’t stick around and risk all sorts of horrible stuff I don’t even know about just for some skinny, miserable cow who’s having it off with a hippy potter anyhow.” She shrugged. “Just as well we’re not all born alike, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” Paul said. “Oh look, here’s the station.”

  “You mean, piss off.” Mr Tanner’s mum’s shoulders slumped, rather like someone who’s given up trying. “All right,” she said, “but think on. I mean, if you haven’t given up on the thin cow, why the hell should I give up on you? Also,” she added, “I’m cunning. And not so scrupulously ethical as our Dennis, either. Be seeing you.”

  She vanished, leaving behind her a faint trace of rare, exotic perfume subtly blended with sulphur. For some reason he couldn’t quite fathom, Paul felt guilty all the way home to Kentish Town. He tried not to think about the peck on the cheek; but later on, he had a dream in which Sophie kissed him in the boardroom, and her reflection in the table top turned out to be Mr Wells, trying to hide a chainsaw behind his back.

  TWELVE

  I’m very pleased with the way you two are coming along.” said Mr Wells, a week later. “Very pleased indeed. In fact, I’m so impressed, I think it’s time you tackled something entirely by yourselves.”

  Paul’s heart sank like an over-insured stone. The last week, spent working for Mr Wells, had been a nightmare. True, the nastiest, most ruthless thing he’d made them do was go through the invoices-delivered ledger and make a list of unpaid accounts. (And who the hell, Paul couldn’t help wondering, could be stupid enough to be late paying his sorcerer’s bill?) That wasn’t the point. What they were being asked to do seemed innocuous enough—mostly going through files and making lists, or cross-referencing—but since they had no idea for what Mr Wells was likely to use the information they gave him, there was always the chance that they were aiding and abetting some unspeakable atrocity.

  Mr Wells was obviously waiting for some reaction to his announcement. Presumably he was expecting grateful excitement, but Paul couldn’t quite run to that. “What would you like us to do?” he asked.

  “Quite simple,” Mr Wells said, and he took two copies of a colour brochure from his briefcase and handed them out. “Read that,” he said, “you’ll see it’s a flyer for the JWW Valentine Express love philtre. It’s been one of our best-selling lines for over a century. Not quite as popular now as it used to be, of course, but we still shift something in the region of fifteen hundred gallons a year, wholesale and retail.”

  Love philtre, Paul thought. “Excuse me,” he said, “but what does it do?”

  “Read the leaflet,” Mr Wells said, “it’ll tell you all about it. Briefly, though; two tablespoons of that stuff, and you fall devotedly and permanently in love with the first person of the opposite sex you come across.”

  Sophie looked up sharply. “Permanently,” she repeated.

  “That’s right,” Mr Wells said. “Till death do us part, guaranteed. A hundred years ago, it was the mainstay of our business. It’s been to
us what lambswool sweaters and ladies’ knickers used to be to Marks and Spencers.”

  Something about that bothered Sophie very deeply indeed, but she didn’t say anything. Mr Wells cleared his throat, and went on: “As well as just supplying the stuff, we also handle what you might call specialist applications. Including,” he added, “covert supply. Not as popular as it used to be back in the days of arranged marriages and the like, but there’s definitely still a call for it.”

  “Covert supply?” Paul mumbled. “Sorry, I don’t think—”

  “Oh, come along,” Mr Wells said impatiently. “Don’t pretend you haven’t daydreamed about spiking some girl’s vodka and orange with the elixir of true love.” Paul went a rare shade of green, but fortunately Sophie was looking at Mr Wells, not at him. “Well, it’s our job to make our clients’ daydreams come true. And that,” he said with a faint grin, “is where you two come in.”

  If Mr Wells could read minds—But either he couldn’t, or he wasn’t bothered by vulgar abuse. “You want us to—” Sophie began to say, then stopped. No point asking the question.

  “Everything you need to know,” Mr Wells went on, “is in the file.” He pushed a buff folder across the desk at them. Neither of them was in any hurry to pick it up. “Names, addresses, photographs for easy identification. We’ve arranged your cover stories, false ID, that kind of thing, and the whole operation’s been planned and timed for you. All you’ve got to do is follow the instructions to the letter and you can’t go wrong. There’s a blue slip so you can draw the philtre you need from the stores, and a green slip for the cashier’s office for your expenses, also train tickets, hotel reservations, the works. So,” he concluded with a pleasant smile, “good luck, and I’ll see you back here at nine o’clock, Monday morning.”

  Halfway down the corridor, Sophie stopped and grabbed Paul’s arm. “We can’t do it,” she said. “We just can’t, that’s all.”

  Paul wished she was right, but knew she wasn’t. They could do it, because Mr Tanner or Mr Wells or any of the other partners could force them to. But he didn’t point this out, because it wouldn’t have done any good. “It’s appalling,” he said. “What do you think we ought to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Sophie replied. “But we’ve got to do something.”

  The past week had been a nightmare, sure enough, and not just because of Mr Wells. After the pizza-and-pecked-cheek episode, they’d both found it almost impossible to speak to each other. Paul wasn’t sure why, though he had several theories, all mutually exclusive. Either she hadn’t meant the peck, or she had; both versions could be taken to explain the embarrassment and discomfort, but the net result was that things were even more awkward than they had been before. This was, from Paul’s point of view, even more nerve-racking than working for Mr Wells, and more than once he’d been tempted to portable-door back to the evening in question and edit out the pizza.

  Now at least Sophie was talking to him, but that just made things worse. What he ought to do, of course, was explain to her exactly why trying to disobey their orders was futile as well as dangerous; but he knew that really she didn’t need to be told, and furthermore that if he tried to tell her, she’d be very angry indeed with him. So he was going to have to pretend to agree with whatever she resolved to do, hoping that at some point along the way he could sabotage the plan and save them both a great deal of suffering.

  Wonderful, he thought. Just what I need.

  The love philtre came in a little plastic bottle; it was golden, like linseed oil, and there was a whitish sediment at the bottom. Sophie took delivery of it, handling it like car-boot-sale nitroglycerine. Then they went back to their office. Paul had the file. He laid it flat on the desk and stared at it.

  “Well,” Sophie said, “aren’t you going to open it?”

  “I suppose so,” Paul muttered. He opened the flap, then nearly jumped out of his chair. A small green claw had pushed through the opening in the cardboard, and was groping about feebly, reminding Paul of lobsters he’d seen at an upmarket fishmonger’s.

  They looked at each other; then Sophie jumped up, grabbed the phone book out of her desk drawer and swung it above her head, ready for a hefty overhand swat. Before she could strike, however, a little goblin head popped out and blinked at her.

  “Here,” it said, in a voice like someone eating corn-flakes, “what’s she doing with that book?”

  Slowly, Sophie lowered the directory. “It’s talking,” she said.

  The tiny goblin gave her a look, then crawled out of the file and sat on the stapler. “Hello,” it said. “My name’s Vox. Mind if I smoke?”

  Paul blinked twice, then nodded. The goblin rolled itself a microscopic cigarette and lit it with a snap of its fingers.

  “You two should see yourselves,” it said. “Bloody comical. Anyway. Now hear this.” It took a long drag and blew bright yellow smoke out through its nose and, remarkably, its ears. “Because the information contained in this file is highly sensitive and confidential, it has not been committed to writing. Instead, it’s been encoded in the form of me. I am your briefing demon, and I’m here to make sure you know and understand what you have to do. OK?”

  The goblin flicked ash into its cupped left hand, and swallowed it. Then it continued. “Your job,” it said, “is to take the 10:17 from Euston to Manchester Piccadilly; change on to the local service to Ventcaster, take a taxi to the village of Cudsey, where there’s two rooms—” Here the goblin lifted his head and winked. “Two rooms reserved for you at the Bunch of Grapes, Egon Ronay one star.” The goblin carefully squeezed out the glowing tip of its rollup, and tucked it behind a pointy ear. “When you get there, I’ll give you the rest of the briefing. Until then, don’t open the file. Bye.”

  It vanished in a little shower of blue and green sparks.

  After a moment of stunned silence, Paul looked at his watch. “We’d better be going,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Well, we’ll miss the train.”

  “We aren’t going to catch any train,” Sophie said. Then she jumped in the air, clawing at the back of her head. The goblin was there again, clinging to her hair like a tiny lemur.

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” it said.

  “Keep still,” Paul shouted, and to his surprise Sophie did as she was told. The goblin scowled. “You’re no fun,” it said, “either of you.” Then it vanished again.

  Sophie was shivering. “Has it gone?” she whispered. Paul nodded. “For now,” he said. “But I’ve got a horrible feeling—” He broke off, and stared. Then he knelt down and lifted his head.

  “Paul,” Sophie said quietly. “Why are you trying to look up my skirt?”

  The goblin, who was hanging upside down from the hem like a little green bat, grinned at Paul and waved

  with its free paw. “You don’t want to know,” Paul said. “Just keep looking at me, for God’s sake. Now, we’re going to get the train, right?”

  Sophie nodded slowly. “I think so,” she said, her eyes very wide and fixed on his. The goblin pulled a face and disappeared. “Has it gone?” Sophie whispered.

  “Yes.” She groaned, and collapsed onto her chair. “I don’t think you ought to have threatened it with that phone book,” he added. “I don’t think it liked it.”

  “No,” Sophie said. She was breathing very deeply. “We’re screwed, aren’t we?”

  Paul picked himself slowly up off the floor. “Looks like it,” he agreed. “You realise it’s probably listening to everything we say.” He noticed that Sophie was trying very hard not to look at his left shoulder. “Very likely,” she said. He shut his eyes, then gingerly patted at his shoulder with his right hand. Nothing there, apparently. He opened his eyes again. “Was it—?”

  “Mphm.”

  “Fine. I think we should get out of here. Maybe it won’t keep popping up all over the place where there’s people about.”

  Time was getting on, so they took a taxi to Euston. Paul
fished about inside the file with his eyes shut until he located the train tickets by feel. First class, Paul noted; presumably the client was footing the bill, but even so. He’d never been first class on a train before.

  “It’s nothing special,” whispered a crackly voice in his ear. “The seats are a different colour, and that’s about it.”

  Once the train was under way, Paul had an idea. It was a good one, though he said so himself; noble without being stupid. “I think I’ll nip along to the buffet car,” he said. “Anything you want?”

  Sophie looked at him, as if to suggest that she had other things on her mind besides thin coffee and stale Danish pastries. “No,” she said. “Why are you waggling your head about like that?”

  “I was wondering that, too,” said the little voice in his ear. Right, Paul thought, got you. He shrugged, and swayed off down the aisle, hoping that Sophie had got the point.

  “Smart,” said the little voice, as he joined the buffet queue. “You figured that I can’t be in two places at once, so you’ve diverted me here, giving your bird a chance to be alone with the file, sneak a quick look, maybe even think of a cunning plan. While you’re at it, could you get me a box of matches? The red ones, not the ordinary kind. There’s your actual sulphur in the red ones, and I’m starving.”

  “Get your own flicking matches,” Paul muttered. The woman behind him in the queue gave him ever such a funny look.

  He bought a cup of tea and a bacon roll—they only had the ordinary brown matches—and staggered back to his seat. Sophie was sitting very still, her eyes screwed up tight shut. Before Paul could say anything, a tiny hand appeared between the top two buttons of her blouse and made a rather vulgar gesture.

  “Doesn’t work, of course,” said the little voice in his ear. “Nice try, though.”

  Then the hand vanished, shedding three green sparkles, and Sophie sagged forward, jumped up and ran down the aisle towards the toilets. She came back a minute or so later, looking very green.

  “It asked me to tell you,” she said in a strained voice, “next time you have a bright idea, warn me first. All right?”