Overtime Tom Holt

by Overtime (lit)

  The Antichrist laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound.

  'Listen, mortal,' he said. 'You're in no position to make a deal. You're coming with me, and that's that.'

  'Actually,' Blondel said, 'you're wrong there. I took the liberty of putting something in your drink. Apart from vermouth and gin, that is. In a very short time you'll be sleeping like a baby.'

  The Antichrist tried to get up, but his knee refused to operate. His mouth opened but nothing came out of it except an olive stone.

  'Oh good,' Blondel went on, 'it's starting to work. I will be brief, for a change. What I propose is a simple exchange of hostages. You for Richard.'

  'But I'm not a... 'The words came very slowly out of his mouth, which was scarcely surprising, since his jaw was setting like concrete.

  'Very soon,' Blondel said gently, 'you will be in the dungeons of the Chastel de Nesle. I'll try and make things as comfortable for you as I can. Clean straw once a year, all that sort of thing. Honestly, I'm surprised at you; and you, Julian and Julian. Didn't you realise this was likely to be a trap?'

  The two Popes tried to get to their feet; unfortunately, the effort of manifesting themselves simultaneously without cocking up the balance of history was too great, and they flopped back against the cushions. Blondel pressed a buzzer and the door opened.

  'Be a good chap, Giovanni, and fetch that laundry basket,' he said. Giovanni nodded and left.

  'You won't get away with this,' the Antichrist managed to say; but by the time he'd finished the last word he was fast asleep. Blondel removed the glass from his hand, smiled gently and put a pillow behind his head. They might be mortal enemies, but there was no point in letting the fellow get a crick in his neck for no reason.

  'Here we are,' Giovanni said. 'You two, give me a hand.'

  The Galeazzo brothers gently transferred the Antichrist and the two Julians into the basket, secured the lid and sat on it. Blondel nodded his approval.

  'Right then,' he said. 'Let's be getting on with it. You take the basket back to the Chastel and we'll meet there after the show.

  'Will do,' Giovanni replied. 'And I can be getting on with the ransom note.

  Blondel shrugged. 'If you like,' he said. 'I don't think that's entirely necessary, though, do you?'

  'Maybe not,' Giovanni said with a grin, 'but it'll be fun.'

  'We're lost, aren't we?' Isoud said.

  Guy sat down on the step and nodded. They'd been down here for a very long time, and there were no more sausage rolls left. This was a silly game.

  'It's not your fault,' said La Beale Isoud reassuringly, and while Guy was still recovering from that one, she added, 'I think you're coping very well, in the circumstances.'

  'You do?' Guy asked, bewildered.

  'Oh yes.'

  'Oh.'

  They sat together for a while in silence. If it wasn't so dark, Guy would have been able to see that Isoud was looking at him with something approaching affection. It was probably just as well that it was so dark.

  'Mr Goodlet.'

  'Call me Guy,' Guy said wearily. 'If it's all the same to you, I mean.'

  'Thank you, Guy,' Isoud replied. 'And you can call me Isoud, if you like.'

  'Thank you, Isoud, that's a great weight off my mind.'

  Isoud either didn't hear that or else she ignored it. 'Guy,' she went on, 'I've been thinking.'

  'Oh yes?'

  'Would it help,' said Isoud, 'if we had a map?'

  Women, thought Guy darkly. 'Probably,' he said. 'But we don't.'

  'No,' Isoud agreed. 'But perhaps we could get hold of one.'

  'Oh yes? How do we manage that?'

  Isoud was fumbling in her handbag. It was the first time that Guy had noticed she'd got one with her; but women's handbags aren't things one tends to notice, not consciously at any rate. One assumes that they have them without looking, just as one assumes that they have feet.

  'We could try the hyperfax,' she said.

  'You mean,' Guy said, as sweetly as he could manage, 'that you've had that ... that thing with you all this time and you haven't seen fit to -'

  'Sorry,' Isoud said, girlishly. 'Have I been very silly?'

  On balance, Guy said to himself, I think I preferred her when she was being unpleasant. 'No,' he said, 'not at all. You have got the wretched thing?'

  'Here,' Isoud replied. She took a tiny metal cube from her bag and handed it to him.

  'This is it, is it?'

  'It folds away,' La Beale Isoud replied. 'I'd forgotten all about it until

  'That's fine,' Guy said. 'Now, just show me how it works, and we can be getting on.'

  Isoud reached across and pressed a tiny little knob on one side of the cube. At once it opened up into a miniature replica of itself. 'Now all we have to do is plug it in,' Isoud said.

  'Plug it in?'

  'Yes.'

  'Plug it into what?'

  'Oh.'

  Guy made a tiny, thin noise like linen tearing. 'Oh, for crying out -'

  'Sorry,' Isoud said, and snuffled indistinctly.

  Very much against his better nature, Guy reached out a tentative hand and patted Isoud on the shoulder. Under normal circumstances it was the very last thing he would have done, but if the bloody woman started crying on him he doubted whether he'd be able to cope. There are limits.

  'There there,' he said stiffly, like a bank manager addressing a small, overdrawn child, 'it doesn't matter. And it was a very clever idea, really. Just a shame there isn't -'

  To his horror, Guy felt a small, warm hand slip into his. His mouth went dry and he felt like a fish who has realised, too late, that if earthworms suddenly appear out of thin water and hover invitingly above one's head, there is probably a catch in it somewhere. Numbly, he gave the hand a little squeeze. One must, after all, be civil.

  'Anyway,' he said in a strained voice, 'we mustn't sit about here all day, must we? Let's be getting along.'

  'Yes, Guy,' said Isoud, meekly. 'Shall I put the hyperfax away again?'

  'Yes,' Guy replied. 'Or rather, no. I've just had an idea.'

  Which was actually true.

  The President of Oceania was sweating.

  What he wanted to do most of all was get out his handkerchief and wipe his forehead; but if he did that, the Chairman of the Eurasian People's Republic would see him do it on her Visiphone monitor, and might take it as a sign of weakness. And that would never do.

  'Is that your last word, Madam Chairman?' he said.

  'It is.'

  Despite the flickering screen he could see that her face was set in an expression of monolithic determination. Bloody woman.

  'In that case,' he said, 'I fear that the United States of Oceania has no alternative but to consider itself at war with the Eurasian People's Republic. Madam Chairman, we have switched out a light that shall not be relit within our...'

  Hold on, thought the President, somebody has switched out the light. 'Are you still there, Madam Chairman?' he asked. But the screen had gone blank.

  'Hey,' said the President angrily, 'what the hell is going on around here?'

  From a corner of the darkened room a voice said, 'Sorry.'

  The President wheeled round in his swivel chair. 'Who is that?' he demanded.

  'It's all right,' said the voice, 'won't keep you a minute. Just borrowing your plug.'

  The President groped for the security buzzer under his desk, and then realised that that wouldn't work either. All the electrics in the room were fed off just the one plug. Damn fool of an electrician had said it would be cheaper that way.

  'Who are you?' said the President. 'And what do you want?'

  'We're just using your plug,' said the voice. 'Sorry if we're disturbing you. Is that something coming through, Isoud?'

  'Put that plug back on immediately.'

  'Certainly, certainly,' replied the voice. 'Won't be two ticks.'

  The President leapt to his feet, tripped over the leg of his desk, and fell over. 'Ouch,'
he said.

  'Careful.'

  'How did you get in here?'

  'Through that door over there,' replied the voice. 'It's probably got No Entry written on it, all the others do. I assure you it's nothing personal,' the voice added. 'It's just that yours was the first door we came to that didn't lead to somewhere in the Middle Ages.'

  'I...'

  'Yup, it's the map all right,' said the voice, 'just the ticket. All right, then, Isoud, you can switch the thing off and let the gentleman have his electricity back. Sorry for any inconvenience,' the voice added.

  A few seconds later, the lights went on, just in time for the President to catch a glimpse of the door marked Maintenance

  Staff Only closing. The Visiphone screen crackled and lit up.

  He dived for his chair and tried to look nonchalant.

  'All right,' said the voice of the Chairman, 'you win.

  'You what?'

  'You win,' replied the Chairman bitterly. 'You have - how you say? - called our bluff. We withdraw our missiles from Sector Three.

  'Oh,' said the President. 'Thank you.'

  'Mr President.'

  The screen went blank. Gasping slightly, the President found his handkerchief and wielded it vigorously. Obviously, the screen had been switched off before he'd made his declaration of war. Lucky.

  He switched on the intercom. 'Frank,' he said, 'get me the briefing room. And,' he added, 'get me that god-damn electrician.'

  'This way.

  Guy folded the map, put it away and pointed. Absolutely no doubt in his mind this time. The map had said Stage Door of Blondel's Concert on it in big bold letters. He turned the handle and pushed.

  And fell forward.

  A split second later, Isoud followed him, landing on the small of his back. He complained.

  'Sorry,' Isoud said. 'Are you all ...

  Guy raised his head and groaned. It wasn't just because Isoud had nearly broken his spine; it was more because he had a very strong feeling that he knew exactly where he was.

  'Guy, are you all right?' Isoud repeated. Then, sensibly, she moved off his back and let him breathe.

  Guy rolled over on to his side and groped for the map. Not that there was any light to read it by, of course. Something small and furry brushed past his hand.

  'Hello,' said a sleepy voice in the depths of the gloom, 'who's there?'

  'Oh, hellfire,' Guy moaned. He was right.

  'Hello?' said the voice again. 'Why, my dear fellow, you've come back again.

  Guy moved his hand - slowly, so as not to startle the rat -and buried his face in it. A trap. The faxed map hadn't been sent from the Chastel de Nesle at all. It had come from Well, it didn't take a genius to work it out. From here.

  'Guy?' Isoud said.

  'Yes, all right,' Guy replied testily. 'Excuse me,' he said, projecting his voice into the darkness, 'but I wonder if you can tell me, is this the Chastel des Larmes Chaudes?'

  'Certainly, my dear fellow,' replied the voice. 'Didn't they tell you at Reception when they brought you in?'

  'I ...' Guy shook his head; for his own satisfaction more than anything else. He wanted to see if anything rattled about in it.

  'Isoud,' he said, 'I'm afraid we've come the wrong way.'

  Pursuivant woke up, opened his eyes, and wiggled his toes. They still weren't right. Typical. If he'd mentioned the duff bearing in the offside right joint once, he'd mentioned it a hundred times, but nobody listened. Next time he was brought in to the Service Bay, he'd damn well insist.

  'I don't know why I bother.'

  It was the voice of the Head Technician, and now he came to think of it, Pursuivant could see his face glowering down at him. He shrugged his shoulders, only to find they weren't there. Probably off having the rubbers changed.

  'I mean,' the Head Technician was saying, 'why don't I just scoop the whole lot out and fill in the hole with wet newspaper or something? Then, next time you get them all bashed out, it won't take me an hour and a half with the small scalpel to put them back together again.'

  'Bad, was it?' Pursuivant asked.

  The Head Technician pulled a face. 'For two pins,' he said, 'I'd have binned the lot and put in a brand new unit. Only then I'd have the bloody Quartermaster down on me like a ton of bricks. First thing in the morning, I'm going to ask my brother-in-law if there's any jobs going down the canning factory.

  He waved to the orderlies, who switched on the conveyor, transporting Pursuivant to the Armery section.

  'What the hell did you do to it this time?' the Armerer demanded. 'Roll about on it? Try and use it to lever open a safe? These are precision instruments, you know.'

  'Sorry,' Pursuivant said. 'Can I have a new one?'

  'No,' replied the Armerer. 'Instead, you can have arthritis. I've fitted it,' he added with a malicious grin, 'personally.'

  'Hey, doc, that isn't -'

  'Nobody said it had to be,' replied the Armerer, swinging his ratchet spanner like a football rattle. 'Next.' Three quarters of an hour later, Pursuivant was standing outside Mountjoy's office, waiting to be told he could come in.

  'Let's just go through this one step at a time,' Mountjoy said. 'You and your colleagues captured the renegade Goodlet backstage and tied him up. Then you left him.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Then,' Mountjoy went on, glimmering unpleasantly, 'a quarter of an hour later you meet him sauntering down a corridor with a girl.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Whereupon he kills you.'

  'Sir.'

  'Pursuivant,' Mountjoy said, glowing like a constipated firefly, 'you excel yourself. Thanks to you, they've disappeared. Completely. Without trace.'

  'They, sir?'

  'The Pope, you idiot. And the Anti-Pope, And ...' Mountjoy mimed a one-armed, partially-sighted man. 'Vanished into thin air. What were you playing at?'

  'I was being killed, sir.'

  'When I've finished with you,' Mountjoy roared, 'you'll wish you were dead ...' He tailed off, and a few desultory sparks crackled from his nose, singeing the hairs. Pursuivant stayed rigidly at attention. He knew from long experience that having your arms drawn tightly in towards your body made you a smaller target.

  'Anyway,' said Mountjoy, 'the question now is, what are you going to do about it?'

  'Me, sir?' Pursuivant said, realising as he did so that he'd gone and cocked it up again. 'I mean, sir -'

  'Yes, soldier, you.' Mountjoy stood silently for a moment, looking for all the world like a pensive table lamp. He turned as the door opened and White Herald came in. He was limping, probably because they'd run out of offside tibias in 63E again. He held a sheet of paper.

  'Fax just come through, sir,' he said. 'Marked F.A.O. Acting General Manager. Brought it straight here.'

  Mountjoy frowned and grabbed at the paper. A moment later he made an unpleasant noise in the back of his throat, grating and ominous, like the sound of hubcap on kerb.

  'Now look what you've done,' he said. 'This is from de Nesle.'

  'Sir.'

  'Stop saying sir like that. He claims to have overpowered them and locked them up in his dungeons.' Mountjoy sighed. 'Well now, this is a bit of a problem, isn't it? Well?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Yes, sir. And there's not really much point in sending you to get them out again, is there?'

  'No, sir.'

  'No, sir. Because you don't know where to look. And even if you did, you're too incompetent to do even the simplest ... What is it?'

  Pursuivant knew better than to look round. In the arcane and convoluted code of regulations by which the Chastel guard was governed, looking round in the presence of a superior officer was punishable in a number of cleverly devised ways, most of which included swapping components around between the individual offenders. When the newcomer spoke, however, he recognised the voice of the chief warder of the dungeons.

  'Sorry to interrupt, chief,' said the warder, 'but I thought you ought to know. I was just doing my rounds wh
en I noticed, there's two new prisoners in Cell Fifty-Nine.'

  Mountjoy dimmed incredulously. 'Two new prisoners?'

  'Yes, chief.'

  'You mean somebody's broken into the prison?'

  'Looks like it, chief.'

  The Chaplain furrowed his brows, producing interesting kaleidoscopic effects on the ceiling. 'Cell Fifty-Nine? You're sure?'

  'Sure, chief.'

  'Well, now,' Mountjoy said, 'I think we'd better have a look at this.'

  Musicology records that the concert was a success.

  'His lambent woodnotes,' wrote the critic of the New Theosociologist, 'blended pellucid leitmotiven with an extravaganza of polychromatic detail, often resulting in a vibrant antagonism between line and length which found its ultimate apotheosis in the semi-cathartic culmination of Nellie Dean. De Nesle continues to build on the firm foundations of his earlier flirtation with the neo-structural; and if he manages to resist the meretricious temptations of the merely beautiful, may yet prove that his pan contains further and more transcendent flashes.'

  As far as Blondel was concerned, though, it had been a good sing-song, it was nice when the audience all joined in the final verse of L'Amours Dont Sui Epris, and what he really needed now was a shower and a cup of warm milk.

  He was annoyed, therefore, to find his dressing room deserted and in rather a mess. In fact, ransacked would be a better word. It looked like a haystack in which someone has eventually managed to find a needle.

  'Mmmmmmmm,' said a voice from inside the wardrobe.

  Blondel raised an eyebrow. One of the wardrobes in this room led directly to the past, the future and a tasteful selection of presents. The problem was, there was no way at any given time of knowing which.

  'Hello?' he enquired 'Mmmmmm.'

  'Giovanni? Is that you?' 'Mmm.'

  'What on earth are you doing in there?'

  It's remarkable how quickly you can pick up a new language. Quite soon, Blondel was fluent enough in gagged noises to understand that Giovanni was trying to tell him that he'd explain much better if only somebody took this sock out of his mouth.