by Tom Holt
The door opened.
“Hello, Vince,” Jane said. “What lovely flowers! Goodbye, Vince.”
The door started to close. Love at this point would have given it up as a bad job and gone home.
“Jane,” Vince said. “Hi there. It’s been a long time.”
“Not nearly long enough. Get lost.”
Through the quarter-open door, Vince could see strange things: miles of plush carpet, acres of richly patterned wallpaper, stacks and rows of colour-supplement furniture. Somewhere in his subconscious, the change in Jane’s environment registered. He smiled, trying as he did so to keep his teeth from chattering.
“I think we ought to talk,” he said.
“Do you? Why?”
“Urn.” Vince dredged his mind for something to say and, in the silt at the bottom of his memory, came across a phrase. It had lodged there, muddy and forgotten, ever since he’d idled away a day’s flu watching one of the afternoon soaps.
“We’ve got to sit down and talk this thing through,” he said solemnly. “Otherwise we might regret it for the rest of our lives.”
Jane considered. “You might,” she said. “Depends on how thick-skinned you are. If being called a heartless, two-timing little scumbag is likely to scar you for life, I’d suggest you leave now. Mind you,” she added, “I expect you’re well used to it by now. Must happen to you all the time.”
“Does that mean I can come in?”
Jane sighed. “I suppose so. It’d make shouting at you easier.”
Weak-kneed, Vince crept into the living-room.
AAAAGH!
There, sitting on the sofa, apparently putting a plug on an electric hair-dryer, was the Monster. For a fraction of a second it raised its eyes and looked straight at him; during which time he did his level best to swallow his own Adam’s apple.
“Vince,” Jane said in a bored voice, “this is Kiss. Kiss, this is Vince. I didn’t ask him to come here,” she added.
The Monster was on his feet. “That’s all right,” he said, “I was just going. I expect,” he added, “you two have a lot to talk about.”
“No, we don’t,” Jane said. “It doesn’t take long to call somebody a bastard.”
“See you later,” said Kiss, and walked out through the wall.
Vince sat down heavily in an armchair. “Your friend—” he said.
“Fiancé,” Jane interrupted.
“Ah.”
“Bastard.”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean, yes?”
Vince tried to think what he did mean, but his brain wasn’t working too well. “Urn,” he said.
What you mean is, yes, I admit I behaved like a bastard, but I promise I’ll make it up to you. Got that?
It isn’t actually possible to jump out of one’s skin, but Vince did his best. The voice seemed to be coming from two inches inside his left ear.
“Do you mind not squirming about?” Jane asked wearily. “You’ll damage the furniture.”
“Sorry.”
I’ll say it one more time. I admit I behaved like a bastard. Go on, say it.
“I admit,” Vince said, staring straight ahead, “I behaved like a bastard…”
“Good.”
But I promise that I’ll make it up to you. Come on, say it. And try and put some feeling into it, for God’s sake.
“But I promise,” Vince gasped, “that I’ll make it up to you. Somehow,” he added.
Don’t ad lib.
“Sorry.”
“What?”
Sorry for all the pain my heartless and misguided behaviour must have caused you. Now, however…
“Hang on,” Vince said. “Sorry for all the pain my heartless and misguided behaviour…”
“Oh, for crying out loud!” Jane exploded. “Look, buster, whoever writes your scripts for you, tell him not to pack in the day job.”
The part of Vince’s subconscious currently under enemy occupation smirked.
Stupid cow. No! Don’t say that. Listen, Jane, I can explain everything. Go on, you fool, cat got your tongue?
“Listen, Jane, I can explain everything.”
“So can I. You’re a bastard. Explanation complete.”
Any suggestions?
Shut up. Jane, when two people feel the way about each other that we do, it’s never too late to start again.
“Jane,” Vince enunciated, “when two people feel the way about each other that we do, it’s never too late to start again.”
“Would you like,” Jane asked, “a cup of tea?”
A whoop of triumph rocked Vince’s inner brain, playing havoc with his centre of balance. Yo, buddy, we’re in! Go for it!
“Yes, please,” Vince said.
“Won’t be a tick.”
Jane retreated into the kitchen. As soon as the door had closed, Vince felt a tremendous rushing in his ears, and-
WHOOSH!
“Hi,” he mumbled. “How’m I doing?”
The genie gave him a cold, hard look. “If I couldn’t read your mind,” he growled, “I’d swear you were deliberately trying to bugger this up. Fortunately for you, I can see you’re shit-scared and you wouldn’t dare. So just do exactly what I say and everything’ll be just fine.”
“Sure,” Vince muttered. “Er, excuse me saying this, but what exactly do you want me to do to her?”
The genie raised an eyebrow. “Marry her, of course. What do you think?”
“Ah.” Vince cowered slightly. “In that case,” he said, “I’d rather have the violent and painful death, if it’s all the same to you.”
For a moment, there was sympathy in the genie’s eyes. “Look, chum,” he said, “it’s you or me, right? And I’m bigger than you, which means it’s you. Sorry, but that’s the way it goes. At the moment,” he went on, deleting the sympathy and replacing it with a glare of heart-stopping ferocity, “we’re doing this the easy way.”
“But she’s so damn sloppy.”
Kiss winced. “Do you mean sloppy as in over-sentimental, or sloppy as in extremely untidy?”
“Both.”
“Agreed. Believe me,” he added, “I’m really grateful to you for doing this. It’s not just the fact that I can’t stand the woman, I assure you. It’s just that unless I can get her to let me off the hook, I’m going to have to become a mortal in fourteen days’ time. Hence,” he added meaningfully, “the sense of urgency. I’ll make it up to you one day, genie’s honour. Unlimited wealth, all that sort of thing. In the meantime, however…”
The door started to open. With a stifled Oh shit! the genie vanished, and Vince once again became aware of a dull presence against his inner ear, as if he’d just been under water.
“Tea,” said Jane.
“Thanks.”
“Drink it while it’s hot.”
You heard the lady.
Vince smiled broadly and drank. A fraction of a second later most of the tea had turned into a fine mist, sprayed all over the room.
“Oh dear,” said Jane. “Something go down the wrong way?”
By way of response Vince choked, gasped and made a peculiar gurgling noise in the back of his throat. He was still smiling, but only because some paranormal force had grabbed control of his jaw muscles and frozen them.
“Perhaps,” Jane continued sweetly, “it’s because I put five teaspoonfuls of salt in it instead of sugar. When you’ve finished retching, you can leave.”
Strewth, whispered the voice in the back of Vince’s brain with horrified admiration, she really is a tough cookie, your girlfriend.
Vince stood up slowly, wiped tea off his face, closed his mouth tightly and pinched his nose hard between thumb and forefinger. Then he blew.
PLOP!
Kiss hit the floor like a sack of potatoes, rolled and came to rest against the opposite wall. He was dripping wet and shaking.
“Well,” Vince said, scrambling for the door, “been nice seeing you again, Jane. All the best to you and your
… All the best. Bye.”
The door closed behind him.
EIGHT
Philly Nine sighed. He was having a hard time.
The brimstone had been a complete washout. Literally — it had started raining just as he was lugging the crates of the stuff off the lorry, and industrial spec brimstone is water-soluble.
The frogs had been an absolute nightmare. They’d just sat there. No sooner had he shooed one consignment of, say, five thousand out of the delivery pond than the previous batch had hopped back in and sat down, resolutely croaking and wobbling their chins at him. Magically generated flash floods dispersed them for a while, but their homing instinct was such that at least ninety-five per cent of them were back home within the hour. They way they got through pondweed was nobody’s business.
“Sign here,” the Frenchman said. “And here. And here. Thanks, monsieur. It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”
Philly nodded sombrely, and waved as the convoy of trucks raffled away into the distance. If you stretched the definition to breaking point, a worldwide chain of Provençal Fried Frogs’ Legs bars might be taken to constitute a plague, but it probably wasn’t going to bring the world to its knees; not, at least, in the short term.
What, he asked himself wretchedly, next? His own fault, he reflected, for letting himself be carried away by the gothic splendour of the language. If he’d been content to settle for a nice straightforward plague of, say, plague, the entire human race would by now be coming out in suppurating boils, and he’d be home and dry. As it was… He took out the crumpled envelope on which he’d jotted down his notes.
x Locusts
x Sulphur
x Brimstone
x Frogs
Hail
Giant ants
Burning pitch
Never usually a quitter, Philly sighed, folded the envelope and put it away. Was there, he asked himself, really any point in going on?
And then he remembered.
The brochure. The smiling face. The slogan, “We’re here to help you.”
“Of course!” he said aloud, and his face broke into a silly grin. Virtually the only useful thing they teach you at Genie School: don’t bother learning the Knowledge itself, so long as you know where to go to look it up. He took out his diary and thumbed through the business cards wedged in the inside flap until he found the right one.
THE GENIE ADVISORY SERVICE
Central office: the Djinn Palace, Street of the Lamp-Makers, Samarkand 9
Have you got a problem? Bring it to us!
Your wish is our command!
GAS headquarters had only recently relocated to an imposing suite of purpose-blown bottles in a crate round the back of Number 56, Street of the Lamp-Makers, and there were the inevitable settling-in problems associated with the migration of any large enterprise. For example, the phones weren’t working yet, only twenty per cent of the staff knew where the toilets were, and all the files had been sent to a hurricane lamp in the Orkneys by mistake, along with most of the typewriters and the coffee machine. Apart from that, it was business as usual.
After five minutes in the waiting room reading a back number of the National Demonological, Philly was greeted by a small, round genie who extended a tiny, moist paw and introduced himself as “GAS 364, your Personal Business Adviser”. GAS 364 chivvied him into a small cell with two deep armchairs, a vase of flowers and a large framed print of Picasso’s Guernica, offered him coffee, and asked what the problem was.
Philly explained.
“Right,” said GAS 364, “got you. The old, old story.”
“It is?”
GAS 364 nodded. “Bitten off more than we can chew,” he said, smiling. “Trying to swoop before we can glide. It’s basically a time management/resources allocation problem.”
“Ah. Is that serious?”
“Depends.” GAS 364 waggled his hands. “There’s a lot of variables. How your operation is structured, for example, lateral as against vertical command groups, properly demarcated zones of responsibility, incentive-related leadership packages, that sort of thing.”
“Gosh,” Philly said. “Actually, there’s only me.”
GAS 364 rubbed his various chins. “Sole practitioner, huh?” he said. “Now that means a whole different subgroup of potential dysfunction hotspots. The left hand not knowing whether the right hand’s been left holding the baby. And, of course, carrying the can.” He shook his head. “You know,” he said, “if only you’d come to see us earlier, a lot of this could well have been avoided. But there we are.”
“Are we?”
GAS 364 spread his hands in an eloquent gesture. “Are we indeed?” he said. “Like we always say, you can’t destroy the world without breaking eggs.”
Philly’s brow clouded for a moment. “Eggs,” he said. “You’re thinking of the giant ants?”
“Let’s stay off the specifics for the time being,” GAS 364 replied, glancing at his watch, “and zoom in on the generals. Which means, first things first, software.”
“Software?”
“Mortals,” GAS 364 translated. “As opposed to hardware, meaning us. It’s basically a question of approach, you see. You sole practitioners, you simply have no idea of how to delegate.”
“Delegate? Delegate the annihilation of the human race?”
GAS 364 nodded. “The only way,” he said. “Think about it. Sure, you’re a Force Twelve, rippling muscles, big turban, the works. But at the end of the day, when pitch comes to shove, there’s just you. Just you,” the genie repeated, “to open the mail, answer the telephones and wipe out all sentient life-forms on the Planet Earth. Result: you’re overstretched. Which means,” he went on, leaning back and folding his hands behind his head, “when the van arrives with the crates of frogs, you can’t cope. As we’ve seen.”
Philly nodded. “So?”
“So,” GAS 364 replied, “let somebody else do the donkey work for you. Get the software to do the actual extermination stuff, while you maintain a general supervisory and administrative role, which is what you’re supremely qualified for. It’s as simple as that.”
Philly, who had just begun to feel he was dimly glimpsing what the small genie was driving at, scowled. “Please explain,” he said.
GAS 364 beamed at him. “Easy,” he said. “Start a war.”
“Hello,” Jane said.
Kiss got up slowly and started wringing out his wet clothes. “Hello,” he replied.
“He’s gone.”
“Has he?”
“Yes. You’re all wet.”
“Yes.”
“Just as well,” Jane said, “that you can’t catch colds.”
“Isn’t it.”
They stood for a while, looking at each other. Between them, so nearly solid that it was almost visible, the question What were you doing in Vince’s ear? hovered in the air.
Somebody once defined Love as never having to explain what you were doing in somebody’s ear. It’s not a particularly accurate definition.
“Fancy a picnic?” asked Jane.
“Don’t mind.”
“Or we could stay in and I’ll cook something.”
Kiss smiled feebly. “Let’s have a picnic,” he said.
For want of anywhere better to go, they went to Martinique. It wasn’t the most joyous picnic in history — (For the record, the most joyous picnic in history was the time seven Force Fives decided to have a barbecue in the back garden of a house in Pudding Lane, London, in the year 1666. The genies had a great time and London got St Pauls, various Wren churches and a nursery rhyme or two by way of belated compensation.) — and after they’d eaten the sandwiches and drunk the champagne they sat in silence for a full seven minutes, looking at the dark blue sea.
“Jane,” Kiss said eventually.
“Yes?”
How to put it, exactly? How to explain that the ferociously passionate feelings they both harboured were nothing but a device contrived by a supernatural
fiend as part of his plan to annihilate humanity? How to explain all that, tactfully?
“Nothing.”
Jane poured the last dribble of the champagne into her glass. It was lukewarm and as flat as a bowling green. “I thought that was very romantic,” she said.
Kiss suppressed a shudder. “What was?”
“You hanging around like that when Vince was there. I think you were jealous.”
Well of course, you would. “Ah.”
“Were you?”
“Sorry? Oh, yes. Yes, I was.”
“You needn’t be.”
“That’s good to know.”
Jane picked at the strap of her sandal. “The moment I saw him,” she went on, “I knew it was all over between us. In fact, I can’t imagine what I ever saw in him, really.”
“Can’t you?”
“No.”
Kiss breathed in. For some reason, he found it harder than usual. “I quite took to him, actually,” he said. “Not a bad bloke, when you get to know him. I expect.”
“Oh Kiss, you are sweet.”
That particular phrase, Oh Kiss, you are sweet, stayed with him the rest of the day and deep into the night, with the result that he couldn’t sleep. By two-thirty in the morning, it had got to him so much that he put on his coat and went to Saheed’s.
In the back bar he met two old friends, Nordic Industrial Components IV and Consolidated Tin IX. They were sitting in a corner sharing a big jug of pasteurised and playing djinn rummy.
“Hi,” he said, joining them. “Would you guys say I was sweet?”
Nick and Con stared at him. “Sweet?”
“You heard me.”
Nick shook his head. “To be frank with you, Kiss, no.”
“I’m very relieved to hear it. Same again?”
Three or four jugs and a game of racing genie later, Nick asked why he had wanted to know.
“Oh, no reason. Somebody accused me of sweetness earlier on today, and it’s been preying on my mind.”
“Ah.” Nick dealt the cards. “Well, my old mate, you need have no worries on that score. Who’s to open?”