Earth, Air, Fire and Custard

by Tom Holt

  ‘Bauxite,’ he said.

  Oh, very well done, the letter continued. For the record, the biggest bauxite deposit ever found outside Australia, and the fourth largest, or maybe the third, in the world. In other words, you and that soppy tart are going to be very, very rich and I hope it chokes you. Unless, of course, she won’t let you sell the rights to one of the big mining cartels because of the environmental damage—

  ‘Actually,’ Sophie said, ‘screw the environment.’

  Thought so, the letter read smugly, your type are all the same. It’s all Friends of the Earth and save the whales till you get a whiff of some serious dosh, and then ethics is just a county in southern East Anglia. Anyway, that’s all you’re getting so make the most of it. Please signify that you accept this offer in full and final settlement of all claims against JWW by signing and burning the enclosed copy of this letter; and if you don’t, tough. Look out, the waitress is coming over with your tea. Act normally till she’s gone.

  The waitress put down the tray. They thanked her. She went away again.

  Assuming you know how, which I personally doubt. Where was I? Oh yes. Loose ends. Benny Shumway isn’t with the firm any more, he cleared out the day Theo Van Spee died, took the petty cash with him, the bastard. I know exactly where he’s gone; you see, when you took out Countess Judy, Jack Wells sent her away to the Isle of Avalon, along with King Arthur and Sir Francis Drake and JFK and Elvis and Princess Di and Lord Lucan and Shergar. But Avalon’s just another of Van Spee’s exclusive executive developments, and now he’s gone - well, keep an eye on the newspapers over the next couple of weeks, that’s all I’m saying. My guess is, Benny’s gone to rescue the only woman he ever really loved, which is kind of romantic, even if she is a psychotic megalomaniac killer elf. A propos of which, you might consider laying in a stock of really strong coffee, like the red Lavazza Espresso. Sweet dreams are made of this, as the old song says. Sinister chuckle.

  ‘Oh God,’ Paul murmured.

  Quite. I expect he’s on her trail right now, your old man; like they say, no rest for the righteous. In which case, Judy and Benny won’t be on the loose for very long. Pity about Benny, a sad tendency to think with his dick but a damn competent cashier all the same. But it’ll all come right in the end - he’ll go down for a very long time and we’ll get our money back. I guess you could say Benny’s yet another casualty of your bloody heavy-handed interference. Honestly. I know you never liked us much, but you’ve certainly had your pound of flesh out of the partnership. Humph Wells, Countess Judy, Van Spee, Ricky Wurmtoter, and now Benny Shumway. Anybody’d think you had a grudge against us, or something.

  Whatever, whatever. Must stop now, I’ve got a whole office to unpack, so I’ll round off with a bit of advice for the both of you. Look, it’s true you’ve both been buggered about with by the firm, and by Frank Laertides as well, of course, sure as God made little green apples (and that was a dirty trick too). Everything that’s made the two of you what you are was part of some other bugger’s top-secret agenda, you were bred up specially to be deployed against someone else’s enemies, and now the war’s over and you’re left behind, like all those Soviet nukes when the Berlin Wall came down. The important thing, in that case, is to make sure that you don’t fall into the wrong hands, otherwise there’s no knowing how much damage you might do. Which is why the last thing Frank did before going away was to dose you up with the famous JWW philtre. You were made for each other, after all, like the Bride of Frankenstein. And yes, I know, you feel pretty hacked off about that; but what the hell. Don’t let the self-pity get to you. After all, vast numbers of people came into this world for all the wrong reasons; like, for instance, two hormone-crazed teenagers getting careless behind the bike sheds, or an unhappily married couple who should’ve divorced years ago thinking that a kid’ll put everything right betwen them. But it’s not how we got where we are that matters; it’s what we do now we’re here, while we’re here. Look, all this mushy stuff is making me want to puke (and sure enough, the ink on the page was gradually turning green) so I’d better knock it on the head, but I’ll just say this. Doesn’t matter why you two pains in the bum are in love, just face the fact that you are. And with patience, understanding, mutual respect, a sense of humour and twelve billion US dollars’ worth of premier-grade bauxite, you may just be able to make a go of it, if you want to.

  That’s it. Be strangers. Don’t keep in touch. Drink your tea, before it gets cold.

  Cordially,

  Squiggle, pp Dennis Tanner.

  For a long time, Paul and Sophie sat still and quiet, carefully not looking at each other. Then Sophie reached out a hand, took the letter and slowly, methodically tore it into little pieces.

  ‘Interfering, dirty-minded prurient little troll,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Quite,’ Paul said, though he wasn’t quite sure he knew what ‘prurient’ meant. ‘But maybe he’s got a point.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ Paul said. ‘I think he was right. I think we ought to try again.’ He rested his hand on top of hers, on top of the small mound of shredded letter. ‘For the sake of the bauxite.’

  Theo Van Spee had never got around to explaining to Paul how he did that apparent mind-reading thing. But it didn’t matter in this case, because Paul didn’t need telepathy to figure out what was going on inside Sophie’s head. One voice, shouting loudly and angrily; another voice, small and quiet, whispering, Yes, but true love and twelve billion US dollars; then the first voice snarling, Screw the twelve billion dollars, and trying to sound like it meant it; and the second voice saying, All right, fine, so that just leaves true love -

  And then she turned her head and looked at him, and said, ‘All right.’