by Tom Holt
‘See?’ he said. ‘The first few times you try it, it helps to have a mirror. Otherwise you might find you come out looking like cheese on toast, or a Dali watch. Here,’ he added, and once again he held his hand up. This time, his palm seemed to have turned to glass, and Paul could see himself reflected in it.
‘I’m not sure about this,’ he muttered doubtfully. ‘I mean, surely there’s more to it than that, or else—’
‘’Course there is,’ said Mr Laertides. ‘There’s the small matter of natural ability, which is only granted to maybe one person in twenty million. But you’ve got it, just like your Uncle Ernie, rest his vicious soul, so that’s all right. Go ahead,’ he went on, ‘try it. If you don’t like the result, just shake your head a couple of times and it’ll reset to zero.’
Well, Paul thought, why the hell not? Very cautiously, he touched his fingertips to his face and pressed, watching the skin move. What first, he asked himself, where to begin? There were so many things about his appearance that he hated that for a while he couldn’t decide what to tackle first. But his upper lip; that had always annoyed him - he was convinced that it made him look like a chipmunk eating a biscuit. Tentatively he drew it down with the top of his forefinger, pressing it gently against his front teeth. As he let go he expected to see the skin move back to where it should be, but it didn’t.
‘It works,’ he whispered.
‘Of course it works, silly,’ said Mr Laertides. ‘I do this sort of thing for a living, remember. Go on, don’t stop, you’re doing fine.’
So Paul tried again. This time he pushed his nose back a little with the heel of his hand, smoothed out the irritating bump halfway along, squidged the ridge between finger and thumb to make it thinner and less pudgy. That didn’t look quite right, though; in order to be any good, it needed the cheeks to be a bit flatter, the chin a tad more pointed, and he definitely had to do something about his ghastly wing-mirror ears—
‘Too much, steady on,’ Mr Laertides warned. ‘Your problem is, you know what you don’t like, you’re not so sure about what you want instead. What you’ve done, you don’t look handsome, you just look like someone’s pressed you in a book like a daisy. What I usually suggest is, get an idea in your mind of what you’re working towards. Easy way is to think of a face you know, a movie star or a TV personality, and try and make yourself look like that. In your case,’ he mused, ‘I’d go for either Leo DiCaprio or the young Hugh Grant. Oh, and don’t forget the teeth,’ he added. ‘That’s a mistake a lot of people make: they get the rest of their faces just right and then as soon as they open their mouths they look like a shark trying to swallow a keyboard.’
Paul had always been hopeless with plasticene and making clay models in Art at school, but he found that if he just concentrated on the picture in his mind and stopped looking at his reflection, it was much easier. ‘There,’ he said, a few minutes later, ‘how’s that looking?’
‘It’s an improvement,’ Mr Laertides said. ‘Has to be admitted, though, that’s not saying a whole lot. No reflection on you, no pun intended, but you’ve got the sort of looks that most things improve, second-degree burns included.’
It all seemed to take for ever; and then, quite suddenly, everything seemed to come right and fit together. ‘That’s it,’ Mr Laertides called out, ‘you’ve got it now. See? Told you it was dead simple. Actually,’ he added, his eyebrows drawing together, ‘that’s not bad, not bad at all. Didn’t I say I thought you had a flair for this sort of work?’
Paul looked away from the window for a moment or so to reset his perceptions, then looked back. The face he saw in the glass was—Years of thoroughly justifiable modesty were getting in the way, but there was no call for any of that, since the face wasn’t his, after all. But it was strikingly handsome: straight nose, high cheekbones, square jaw, finely tapered chin, large well-spaced eyes, firm mouth not too narrow or too broad, a basically serious face but fully equipped to handle a wide spectrum of emotions . . . He ventured a smile, and was agreeably startled by the flash of warmth, like sunlight breaking through clouds and flooding a deep valley. He tried a laugh; when Paul Carpenter laughed he looked like a baboon, but you could practically see the great golden soul behind this face peeping out at you through the windows of the eyes. He ran through a basic repertoire of expressions - brave, stern, compassionate, caring, happy, sad, serious, playful - and stopped because it was unbearably frustrating; because this was the face he should have been born with, if only there had been any justice in the world. With a face like this, he could have been somebody, a contender . . . Not just because it was cute and hunky and guaranteed sure-fire girl catnip, though of course that’d have solved or more likely preempted a great many of the personality defects that the real Paul Carpenter had had to live with all these years. It was more than that, though. He could’ve been himself in a face like this, instead of having to tailor his hopes, aspirations, objectives, expectations to suit the jumble of skin, bone, muscle and cartilege he’d been issued with when he was born. All his life, he realised bitterly, he’d had to be the boy who looked like a bolted Brussels-sprout plant (the clown, the butt, always left over when teams were picked, always on his own in the playground during break); and how stupid, how arbitrary to allocate him to village-idiot duties simply on the basis of nose length and ear configuration. You might as well choose somebody to be the President of the USA on the grounds that he could spit further than anybody else.
‘What’s the matter?’ Mr Laertides was saying. ‘You look like someone’s just filled your inside pocket with treacle. Don’t you like it?’
‘Oh, I like it a lot,’ Paul mumbled. ‘That’s the problem.’
‘Is it? Why?’
Paul turned sharply and looked away. ‘Because it’s not me, is why. Because I’ve got to give it back and carry on being Chimp Boy for the rest of my life. It’s not . . .’
‘Not fair?’ Mr Laertides chuckled, and for some reason the floor under Paul’s feet shook slightly. ‘Come on, sunshine, how old are you? Nine? Is that hypocrisy, or what? You’re getting all stressy because it’s not fair that people judge by appearances, but what the hell else are you doing every time you fall in love at first sight? Think about it; at first sight. What kind of attitude is that, for crying out loud? You must be so shallow, it’s a miracle you haven’t evaporated yet.’
‘Yeah, well.’ Paul shrugged. ‘Like it’d have made a whole lot of difference if I’d fallen in love with girls because they’re warm, caring human beings who want to work with disabled childen and dream about world peace. They’d still have told me to drop dead, because I’ve got a face like a Disney character. Not that it matters, anyhow,’ he added briskly, ‘because I’m through with all that now. Thanks,’ he added with a slight frown, ‘to you and that medicine you made for me. I mean, because of that, isn’t all this sort of thing a bit irrelevant?’
‘There’s other things in life,’ said Mr Laertides, ‘besides getting off with girls, or had you forgotten about that? No, really. There’s being taken seriously, for a start; having people predisposed to like you, willing to hear you out, listen to what you’ve got to say. I know, none of that stuff’s in the same league as being able to pick up women in bars, but it might just be worth making a tiny effort now and again, don’t you think?’
Paul nodded. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. But it still doesn’t matter a toss, because sooner or later I’ve got to go back to being Coco the Clown. That’s where I live,’ he said harshly, ‘and anything else’d just be a short holiday I couldn’t afford to pay for.’
Mr Laertides’s face was completely expressionless. ‘Not necessarily, ’ he said.
‘Not necessarily?’ Paul was aware that his voice was raised and messy-sounding, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it; he was angry, and he needed to say his piece. ‘Oh, sure. Like I can walk into the office on Monday morning looking like this. Nobody would believe it was me.’
‘True,�
� said Mr Laertides quietly. ‘They’d think you were a client, or a rep or something.’
‘Exactly. I’d be kissing goodbye to my job, for one thing.’ Probably because of the angle of the sun slanting through the train window, Mr Laertides’s face was in shadow. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘And that’d be a bad thing, of course.’
The implied yeah, right stopped Paul short like a cow standing dead still on a railway line. ‘Well, of course it would,’ he said. ‘Look, being me isn’t a barrel of laughs, but that’s who I am. I can’t suddenly stop it and go and be someone else.’
Mr Laertides shrugged just a little. ‘You think so,’ he said.
‘Oh, for—It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s not a matter of opinion. It’s one of those things, that’s all.’
‘I see. So you’re resigned to it, in other words. You’re so sure, you wouldn’t even try something else, even if you had the chance.’
Paul shook his head. For some reason, Mr Laertides seemed to be having trouble understanding him. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’d love a chance of being someone else, like him.’ He jerked his head sideways in the direcion of the window. ‘But it’s not possible, so what the hell. Right?’
‘No.’
It was probably his tone of voice that did it. Paul looked up sharply. ‘Sorry?’
‘I said no,’ Mr Laertides said. ‘Meaning, if you want to be the bloke in the reflection there, that’s no problem. Easy bloody peasy. All it’d take,’ he added, ‘would be for Paul Carpenter to die; and then, gradually and being tactful about it, you could take his place.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And you’ve already done that,’ Mr Laertides went on, ‘so that’s the hard part out of the way. The rest’s easy, it’s just telling a few lies over and over again until eventually they stop being lies and become true. Now, how much trouble could that be, compared with dying and coming back to life again?’
For a long time - long enough to make a sandwich or wrap a small parcel - Paul said nothing. Then, in a little tiny voice, he asked: ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Ah.’ Mr Laertides’s grin was back, gaping in his face like a volcanic fissure. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Here’s what I had in mind. You come to Brighton with me and help me out with a few small jobs - nothing boring or yucky, not even doing any magic; just sitting in a corner during meetings making notes, running a few errands, stuff like that. In return, when I get back to the office on Monday, I’ll tell them all you died. Yet again. Had a relapse of death, and this time you’ve copped it, you aren’t coming back. And don’t worry, they’ll believe me, because when they go round to your flat they’ll find a body, and it’ll be you, and they’ll have an inquest and then a funeral, and everything completely legal and above board. Or that’s what they’ll believe, at any rate. Just another basic glamour, really.’
Paul looked at him. ‘You can do that?’
‘In comparison,’ Mr Laertides said confidently, ‘you need two first-class honours degrees and a doctorate to fall off a log. Trust me,’ he added with a grin, ‘that’s my job, it’s what I do. So there you’ll be, dead, no more boring, dumb-looking loser you. Then, after a decent interval, like maybe a week, I’ll tell Dennis Tanner and the rest of them that I’ve found someone to take over your job. Enter the new you; and you carry on where you left off, but without the incredibly debilitating handicap of being you. What do you reckon? Sound good to you?’
‘But—’ Paul frowned. His mind was gridlocked with ideas, objections, worries, practicalities, trivia. ‘Why have I got to go back to JWW?’ he said. ‘If you’re so smart, can’t you see I hate it there?’
‘Only because you’re a pathetic loser,’ Mr Laertides pointed out. ‘New improved Paul Carpenter will get on like a house on fire, probably realise what a really wonderful place it is and how incredibly lucky he is to work there. Besides,’ he went on, ‘the whole point of this gig from where I’m sitting is to get you to come and work for me. It’s the price of the deal, take it or leave it. Up to you entirely.’ Before Paul could stop him, he’d reached over, grabbed Paul’s wrist and held his palm outwards in front of his nose. ‘Your choice,’ he added, as Paul gawped at the reflection suddenly showing there. ‘You could be him, or you can stay being you. No rush to decide, the offer stays open for the next three seconds.’
Paul froze, counting in his head, one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi. One second left to make a choice like that, it was crazy. He couldn’t be expected to make a decision like that in less than a fortnight. Three-Missi—
‘Well?’ asked Mr Laertides.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was bizarre, attending his own funeral. Being the kind of pathetic loser he’d always been, Paul had imagined what it might be like many times. Each time, he’d pictured a small (a pathetic loser, yes, but a realist) crowd of family and so-called friends, all torn apart with guilt and shame because they’d failed him, never understood him, been horrible to him and now it was too late to set things right. He’d pictured them over and over again, heads bowed as they stood in the rain beside his open grave - obviously it’d have to be raining - looking down at their shoes, miserable and wet, while his disembodied spirit floated above the treetops, sticking out its ectoplasmic tongue at them. It had always been a strangely comforting fantasy, which was why he’d kept coming back to it.
Instead—
‘People keep staring at me,’ he hissed at Mr Laertides, as they filed out of the crematorium into the painfully bright sunlight. ‘They know it’s me. I’m going to be in so much trouble—’
‘Balls,’ Mr Laertides replied, without any visible lip movement. ‘None of them have ever seen you before, and they’re all wondering who you are. Probably they think you’re my boyfriend.’
‘What? At my own funeral? That’s so—’
‘Keep your voice down,’ Mr Laertides growled. ‘Who’s that large woman with the luminous hair? Her over there, just ducked behind the laurel bushes for a smoke.’
‘Who? Oh, that’s my mother.’ Paul frowned. His shoes were too tight for his new feet. ‘It was nice of her to come, though, all the way from Florida. Pity Dad couldn’t make it, but apparently he’s in some posh golf tournament, and the quarter-finals are tomorrow. Bastard,’ he added.
‘You should go and talk to her,’ Mr Laertides said. ‘Offer her your sympathy at her sad loss. Who’s that girl standing on her own at the back? Ex-girlfriend, by the look of her.’
Paul was about to point out that Sophie hadn’t come when he realised who Mr Laertides had meant. ‘That? Mr Tanner’s mother. You know, from the office.’
‘Are you sure? It doesn’t look like her. No claws or fangs, for one thing.’
‘She’s in disguise. Well, not disguise, exactly. She likes to dress up as humans.’
Mr Laertides shrugged. ‘Whatever. In any event, she’s adding a bit of tone to the proceedings. Call no man’s life wasted, I always say, when there’s a mysterious beautiful girl in floods of tears at his funeral.’
Paul shook his head. ‘That’s not floods of tears,’ he said. ‘She’s probably just picking her nose behind a handkerchief.’
‘Floods of tears,’ Mr Laertides repeated firmly. ‘Though since it was her that had you killed, it may just be a show she’s putting on for the lawyers, in case your family decides to sue.’
Paul shook his head, as his seven-year-old cousin Penny ran past, chasing a pigeon. ‘No dice,’ he said. ‘They went to see a lawyer in Orlando, soon as they heard what happened. Apparently they lost all their rights to compensation when they sold me to JWW. You lot could sue, the firm, I mean, but I don’t suppose Mr Tanner’d be too happy about suing his own mother.’
Mr Laertides grinned just a little. ‘Dennis Tanner is incapable of happiness,’ he replied. ‘It just sort of soaks away into him like water in the desert. Are any of your friends here?’
‘Dave and Chloe said they’d try and look in for the reception,’ Paul replied. ‘Howard se
nt my mum a nice card, with lilies on it.’ He looked away. ‘Actually it was a birthday card, but he gummed a bit of white paper over the inscription.’
‘Touching.’ Mr Laertides yawned. ‘I wonder what’s taking so long,’ he said. ‘You didn’t have any metal bits inside you, did you? You know, hip replacements, pacemakers, stuff like that?’
Paul thought for a moment. ‘Tooth fillings,’ he said, ‘that’s about it. Talking of which, who the hell decided on cremation? I’ve always thought it’s a bit, you know, yucky.’
‘Better than being eaten by worms, surely. I expect it was your mother, as next of kin.’
‘Well, she might have asked me first - Look, they’re coming out.’ Paul pulled a face. ‘I suppose that’s me there, in that little box thing. I don’t know the procedure at these things. What happens next?’
‘Depends. Twelve, by the way.’
‘Twelve what?’
‘People here. Mourners. I counted. That’s not including us, of course. Even so.’
‘Fourteen,’ Paul said defiantly. ‘And there’d have been more if it wasn’t for the football. England versus Kiribati.’
Mr Laertides dipped his head. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘There was someone sitting behind us during the service, listening in on headphones. We were six-nil down at half-time, if you’re interested.’
‘You’re right,’ Paul said quietly, ‘it’s absolutely bloody ghastly. I shouldn’t have come. It’s so . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Twelve people,’ he said. ‘Not much to show for a life, is it?’
‘Never mind,’ Mr Laertides said, ‘you’ll just have to do better next time. Shouldn’t be difficult,’ he added. ‘One dozen to beat. It’ll give you something to work towards.’