The Portable Door (1987)

by Tom Holt

  “Quite,” Paul said, and he looked away. Could have been us; and what would they have been doing right now, if Mr Wurmtoter hadn’t shown up in the nick of time? Walking together down this very street, quite possibly, hand in hand, gazing into each other’s eyes. But it wouldn’t have been right; not if he really loved her—which, he suddenly realised, he did. Not the familiar old Paul Carpenter crush, the desperate need to find himself a girl, any girl, because everybody else in the whole wide world had one except him. The only girl he’d ever want was this one.

  He thought about the performance potter. Shit, he thought.

  And then a picture floated into his mind of the plastic bottle of Valentine Express, still presumably sitting on Sophie’s bedside table—“What’s the matter?” she said. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”

  “What?” He looked away. “Sorry,” he said, “I was just thinking about—well, you know.”

  She nodded. “Me too,” she said. “But it’s all right now.”

  “No it’s not,” Paul wanted to shout, because of course it wasn’t. It was all still very wrong, because if Vox the goblin had jumped out of his top pocket at that moment with the bottle in one hand and a tablespoon in the other and offered him the same deal over again, he couldn’t be absolutely sure that he wouldn’t—“That philtre stuff?” he said suddenly. “I think you ought to get rid of it quick. It’s not safe, having it lying about.”

  “I was just thinking that,” she said. “Leave it to me, I’ll see to it.”

  He nodded. For a moment, he’d been afraid she’d ask him to dispose of it, and he wouldn’t have wanted to have the bottle in his hand, not even for a second. Then Sophie darted forward and grabbed his arm. “Quick,” she hissed, “get out of the way.”

  No explanation needed: walking down the street towards them were award-winning Ashford Clent and the client. Paul and Sophie ducked behind a pillar box until they’d gone by; and Paul couldn’t help noticing the expression of bewildered joy on the thirty-million-dollar face as it passed him. Shit, he thought again, and something deep inside him started to hurt like hell.

  “Just a minute,” Sophie whispered. “I’ve had an idea.” Paul frowned. “What?”

  “Stay there,” she said. “Did he see you? Clent?”

  “Just now, or earlier?”

  “Earlier.”

  Paul shook his head. “Don’t think so,” he replied, “he went out like a light. Why?”

  “Look.” Sophie was pointing; Clent and the client were going into the Green Dragon, on the other side of the road. “Stay here till I get back,” she said.

  “Where are you going?”

  She grinned at him. “Back to my room,” she said. “Then we’re going to buy the next Mrs Clent a drink.”

  §

  How Paul found the guts to do it, he wasn’t quite sure. Walk up to two perfect strangers in a pub holding two glasses of champagne and ask them if they’d mind having a drink with him, because he’d just won the Lottery—and they’d smiled and said, Yes, they’d be delighted, thank you; actually, Clent said, they were celebrating too, they’d just gotten engaged. The clunk he heard as he walked quickly out of the bar was the future Mrs Clent’s head hitting the table. The stuff worked fast, no doubt about it.

  Twenty minutes later, they crept back, just to make sure. Just as well they had, because someone had called the doctor (a fat, middle-aged man with a Captain Mainwaring moustache); and when the future Mrs

  Clent groaned and started to come round, it was only Sophie’s quick thinking—she dashed forward and screamed ‘Look, it’s Ashford Clent!’ at the top of her voice, causing the doctor to look away—that saved the day. But it was all right; the first thing the client saw when her eyes opened was the thirty-million-dollar face gazing earnestly down at her. The click of the mousetrap snapping shut was almost deafening.

  “Right,” Sophie said, as they sprinted across the street. “Now I’m going to get rid of the bottle. Soon as we get back to the hotel, I’ll pour the rest of it down the bog.”

  “Good idea,” Paul replied quietly. After all, it was only him—his dreams, his happiness, stuff like that—and it wouldn’t be the same if he got it by cheating. Would it?

  Would it? He thought of the glow in Clent’s eyes. True happiness, he thought; so what if it came out of a bottle, like corn-gold hair and whisky? Hellfire and buggery, he thought, she deserves true happiness, even if I don’t. And she’d be happy, as opposed to dead miserable, which was how she’d been ever since he’d known her. Yes, he thought, definitely get rid of what’s left in the bottle. Before he changed his mind.

  At the top of the stairs, they hesitated; her room to the left, his to the right. “I don’t know about you,” Paul lied, “but I’m worn out. Think I’ll get an early night. Can you remember what time our train is in the morning?”

  Sophie shook her head. “I think the goblin had the tickets,” she said.

  “Oh. Oh well, we’ll just have to buy our own, then. I don’t suppose there’ll be any problem getting the money back, if we ask Mr Wurmtoter to sign the pink form.”

  She laughed. “Goodnight, then,” she said. “I’ll go and empty that bottle now.”

  “Right,” he said, and walked away without looking round.

  §

  There was a train leaving Ventcaster at ten to ten, connecting with the twelve-thirty from Manchester Piccadilly to Euston. In spite of a few minor dramas involving taxis from Cudsey and Banquo’s-heirs-type queues at the ticket office, they managed to make the connection. They’d hardly said a word to each other all day.

  At Manchester, Paul bought a magazine to hide behind for the rest of the journey. Being short of time, he’d grabbed at random from the rack and been rewarded with Stamp & Coin Monthly; Sophie, who’d done the same thing, hadn’t fared much better with Which Chainsaw? After they’d sat opposite each other for an hour and a half without either of them turning a page, Sophie leaned forward and said, “Swap?”

  Paul lowered his shield. “Sorry?”

  “Swap,” she repeated. “I mean, I’m dying to read the latest news about Channel Island commemoratives, and I bet you can’t wait to see their review of the all-new Makita 202ZW.”

  Paul sighed, and dropped the magazine onto the seat next to him. “Sorry,” he said.

  “I’m just as bad,” she replied. “But we’ve got to talk about it sooner or later.”

  “Yes,” Paul replied unenthusiastically. “All right, then, fire away.”

  She frowned. “Not like that,” she said. “It’s not like an audition or something.”

  “Sorry.”

  Long silence. They stared at each other, like British and German soldiers in the Flanders trenches on Christmas Eve who couldn’t remember the words to ‘Silent Night’. Eventually, Paul said: “So, what did they think of it?”

  “What?”

  “The new Makita 202ZW.”

  She looked at him. “Apparently it goes through green softwood like it isn’t there. This is stupid.”

  Paul nodded. “After all,” he said, “we’ve still got to work together.”

  He’d apparently said the wrong thing, because she scowled. “That’s right,” she said. “I think we’ve got to put it all behind us, really. Not pretend it didn’t happen—”

  (The woman in the seat opposite was staring at them with rapt attention.)

  “—But we can’t let it come between us, in our careers, I mean. It was just, well—”

  “One of those things?” Paul suggested.

  “I suppose so.” Sophie wriggled in her seat, then suddenly stood up. “I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I’m starving. I think I’ll go to the buffet and get something to eat. You want anything?”

  Not a ham roll, Paul thought; but as it happened, he was palpably thirsty. “Cup of tea would be great, thanks,” he said.

  “Right.” She hurried away, and he noticed how neatly she moved against the swaying of the trai
n. Not like him. She’d left her bag on the seat, and just for a split second, he wondered if she’d remembered to get rid of the philtre. If she hadn’t, it’d be there, and when she came back with her coffee or her orange juice—No, he said to himself. Out of the corner of his eye,

  he saw the woman opposite studying him. Yeah, he thought, if only you were right. But you aren’t. He picked up Which Chainsaw? and read the letters page.

  “Tea,” said a voice above his head. He looked up. She was back.

  “Thanks,” he said. “How much do I owe you?” She shook her head. “I got a receipt,” she said. “This is on J.W. Wells. You sure you don’t want anything to eat? You can have half of my cheese sandwich.”

  “No, really.” Silly; because now she mentioned it, he was feeling a bit peckish. Still, he could hardly get up and go buying food now that he’d refused her offer. Why was it, he thought, that he refused every damn thing he wanted that was offered to him? He sipped his tea, which was hot and tasted foul, and decided that enough was enough. “Look,” he said, “about what happened. I know it wasn’t—”

  And then he fell asleep.

  §

  Paul’s head hurt.

  Probably, he thought, where I banged it on the table. He lifted his head and opened his eyes.

  “Hello,” said a voice.

  He knew perfectly well that the face he was looking into belonged to the woman who’d been sitting in the seat opposite. Odd; because he distinctly remembered her—late forties or early fifties, somebody’s mother, somebody’s aunt—and he could have sworn that when he’d last looked at her, she hadn’t been the most beautiful girl in the world, the most wonderful, the most—Shit, he thought.

  And then the most amazingly fantastic girl in the universe grinned at him, and he jumped in his seat as though he’d just sat on a hedgehog, and hissed, “You!”

  “That’s right,” said Mr Tanner’s mum. “How’s your head? Nasty bump you’ve got there.” Bitch, he thought. Wonderful, gorgeous, stunningly lovely bitch. “Where’s Sophie?” he groaned.

  Mrs Tanner gestured sideways with her head. Sophie was sitting on the seat next to her, a brown paper bag over her head. “Just a simple precaution,” Mr Tanner’s mum said, “I can take it off now.”

  Paul looked round, but everybody else in the compartment was either fast asleep or completely preoccupied with their book, magazine or newspaper. Mr Tanner’s mum pulled off the paper bag and dropped it on the floor.

  “I didn’t hit her very hard,” she went on, “just hard enough, that’s all. You see? I can be nice when I want to.”

  Paul knew exactly what he wanted to say, he could see the words bright on his mind’s screen. But what came out was, “I love you.”

  Mr Tanner’s mum grinned again. “You don’t know how good that sounds,” she said. “Say it again.”

  “I love you.”

  “Yes,” she said, “you do, don’t you? Serves you right, and all. We could’ve done this the easy way, but you had to be difficult. Men,” she said scornfully. “Humans,” she added.

  Paul knew that he wanted to be angry, but he couldn’t. It was like wanting to be six feet tall, or the Pope; he could imagine more or less what it’d be like, but there was no way on earth he’d ever manage it. Instead, he was going to have to love Mr Tanner’s mum. That was inevitable. He wasn’t falling in love so much as sinking, slowly but unstoppably, like a man drowning in custard. He knew that as soon as the custard closed over his head, filled his mouth and lungs, he’d be happy, happy-ever-after, as deliriously happy as award-winning Ashford Clent. The rest of his life would be a glorious summer afternoon, basking in the warm glow of Mr Tanner’s mum, his star, his sun. True, there might conceivably be troubles ahead; but while there was moonlight and laughter and love and romance—No, he tried to yell, no bloody way. (The custard was up to his nose by now.) This couldn’t be happening to him, because—well, he was Paul Carpenter, the lemming that walked by itself, and all disastrously failed relationships were alike to him. But he knew that if only he stopped thrashing about, relaxed, took his eye off the ball for one split second, then the happiness would burst through and overwhelm him, and there’d be no more loneliness, rejection, self-doubt, misery, it’d all be wonderful for ever, because Love is the sweetest thing, makes the world go round (though a similar effect can be obtained by drinking lots of whisky very quickly), love is all you need.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” Mr Tanner’s mum was saying. “And look at me when you’re falling in love with me, can’t you? You’re pathetic, you are.”

  “Piss off,” Paul mumbled. “Darling,” he added.

  She was tapping her fingers on the table top. “You can’t fight it,” she said. “Dead in the water, you are. After all, it’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Paul said quietly. “But not any more.”

  Mr Tanner’s mum scowled at him. What a wonderful scowl she had; so expressive, so passionate! “Get real,” she said. “Admit it, you never actually liked that bony cow anyhow. Go on, it’s true, isn’t it?”

  “No. Yes. No.”

  “Fine.” Mr Tanner’s mum folded her arms. “All right, then, tell me what you like about her. Radiant beauty? I’ve seen sexier crayfish. Wonderful warm personality? Sparkling vivacity, cheerfulness and wit? Deep, compassionate soul? Or what? She’s miserable, sullen and selfish, bloody difficult all the damn time, she’s moody and objectionable and she’s got some disgusting personal habits. Frigid as a polar bear’s—”

  “No,” Paul said. “You’re wrong. She’s—” He stopped. He couldn’t remember what she was.

  “You were saying? Must be really special if you can’t even remember.”

  “I can,” Paul whimpered, “it’s just—”

  “All right, then,” said Mr Tanner’s mum, grinning that achingly lovely grin. “Tell me her name.”

  Paul looked up. “What?”

  “You heard me. What’s her name?”

  Paul couldn’t remember. He cradled his head in his hands, wanting to cry, but he couldn’t, because he was so, he was very nearly so wonderfully, blissfully fucking happy. “Please,” he whispered. “Don’t.”

  “Too late,” Mr Tanner’s mum replied, “even if I wanted to, which I don’t. I’ll say this for you, though, you put up a good fight. But it’s over, and I’ve won, so stop pissing around and come to my arms, before I smash your face in.”

  It was no good. No point, either. Even if he managed to break free, spit out all the custard and struggle out of the swamp, she (the girl he loved, the thin girl, what’s-her-name) she’d never be his, she’d given her heart and mind and body to a performance potter called Shaz who lived in a bus on the outskirts of Esher, or was it Epping Forest? No point—“All right,” he groaned. “But not here, right? Not in a bloody train, with all these people—”

  Mr Tanner’s mum stuck her tongue out at him; it was green and scaly. “Prude,” she said. “But I’m not waiting till we get back to the office. How about the guard’s van?”

  “Better idea,” Paul mumbled. “Door thing. Portable door. In my pocket. Go wherever we like.”

  “Ah.” Another grin. “Now you’re talking. How about on the beach at Martinique? Nothing like the warm sand in the small of your back, I always say. Or—”

  “Wherever,” Paul grunted, and he pulled the cardboard tube out of his pocket. “Corridor?” he pleaded.

  “Lead the way, lover,” said Mr Tanner’s mum.

  He stumbled to his feet, somehow made it into the corridor, where there was a patch of bulkhead just large enough to accommodate the portable door. “Need something to wedge it open,” he gasped.

  “How about my handbag?”

  “Fine.” He unrolled the door, smoothed it into place. “After you.”

  “What, and you wait till I’ve gone through and then slam it after me? Do I look like I’ve just fallen off a palm tree?”

  “Yes. No. I’ll go first, then.�
��

  He opened the door; then, as his front foot crossed the threshold, he shouted ‘PAST!’ as loud as he could and lunged forward.

  §

  Wherever it was, it was as dark as a bag. Somewhere behind him, Paul could hear Mr Tanner’s mum howling, Bastard! at him, but that was fine. He pulled up her face on his mind’s screen, and thought Yuck. It was all right. He was better now.

  He looked down at where his wrist ought to be, but of course he couldn’t see his watch face in the dark. Not that it mattered; he knew by now that it wouldn’t be any help anyway, Time inside the door being subjective, or something. All that counted was that he’d gone far enough back into the past that he’d never drunk that sodding philtre-laced tea. Free and clear, at least for now.

  He stood up straight, and listened. Not far away, he could hear footsteps, heavy trampling ones, and Mr Tanner’s mum’s voice—“Just let me get my hands on you, I’ll rip your fucking lungs out.” It occurred to him, with her image in full goblin mode still very much in mind, that this was probably no idle threat. Time, Paul decided, to start running.

  He ran.

  Running in the pitch dark isn’t a very sensible thing to do. He hadn’t gone more than a few steps when his nose connected with something invisible but extremely solid. He fell over and lay curled up on what was presumably the floor; and while he was doing that, someone or something stepped over him, not apparently aware that he was there. From the fact that this person was shrieking: “And then I’m gonna tear your liver out and fry it with onions,” he deduced that it could well be Mr Tanner’s mum.

  Great, he thought. Now all he had to do was sneak back to the portable door, nip through it, slam it shut, roll it up, and that’d be that. With no time to waste standing up, he turned round on all fours and started to scuttle in what he hoped was the direction he’d just come from. As he went, it did occur to him to wonder what happened to somebody who got left behind when the door closed. The one time it’d happened to him, it had been all right; he’d been back in the office, a mere eighteen hours or so from where he’d started. But now, of course, he had no idea where or when he’d fetched up. For all he knew this could be some ghastly interdimensional void, and he was planning on stranding Mr Tanner’s mum here, possibly for all eternity—Tough, Paul thought.