Djinn Rummy

by Tom Holt

  “You again?”

  “No,” Neville replied, “that’s my cousin Wilf.”

  “Ah. Let me guess, you’re the snakes.”

  “You got it.”

  “I escape, naturally?”

  “Naturally.”

  “The snakes, I anticipate, aren’t quite so fortunate?” Neville shuddered. “I do so hate death by drowning,” he added. “Makes your ears go pop. I always get this headache, stays with me the whole of the rest of the day.”

  “In fact,” Asaf said, “the way I see it, I’m going to have to spend the rest of today, and probably most of tomorrow as well, kicking shit out of you, and it’s all a foregone conclusion anyway.”

  “Wretched, isn’t it?”

  “Childish,” Asaf agreed. “Look, couldn’t I just beat you to a jelly now and get it all over with in one go?”

  There was a long pause. “Put like that,” said Neville slowly, “it does sort of make sense.”

  “In fact,” Asaf went on, “a token clip round the ear would probably do just as well.”

  Neville frowned. “I’m not sure about that,” he said. “Standing orders specifically require—”

  “Yes,” Asaf interrupted, “but who’ll ever know? I won’t tell anybody.”

  “You won’t?”

  “Scout’s honour.”

  The monster thought about it for a while. “Can I get you to sign a receipt?” he asked. “Just for the books, you understand.”

  “Sure,” said Asaf.

  “Deal!” The monster cried, and it reached down into the bowels of the earth. A moment later its hand reappeared holding a parchment, a quill pen and a bottle of ink. “So much more sensible this way,” it said.

  “Quite.”

  “So if you’ll just sign here…”

  “Where your finger is?” asked Asaf, unscrewing the ink bottle.

  “That’s it. Goodbye, idiot!” he added. “See you in Hell!” And, so saying, it grabbed Asaf by the scruff of the neck, squashed him head-first into the ink bottle and screwed down the cap.

  And vanished.

  Meanwhile, the small frog that was Kevin, the insurance broker, had filed his report. It made interesting reading.

  Only a genie of Force Seven or above could have deciphered the pattern of nibble-marks on the my-pad, and known that they read:

  Rivet-rivet-rivet-rivet-

  RIVET-RIVET-RIVET-RIVET!!!!!-RIVET!!!!!!

  Only a genie of Force Eight or above, fluent in frog, could have translated the message and grasped its terrible significance.

  Only a genie of Force Nine or above would have the authority to take the necessary remedial action.

  Only a genie of Force Eleven or above (or God, at a pinch) would have the necessary technical knowledge and basic common sense required to put that remedial action into effect.

  Fortunately, the report found its way on to the right desks, was understood and taken seriously. The necessary action was proposed, approved and set in hand.

  As for the frog that was Kevin, it found itself coming to terms with its new lifestyle rather more quickly than it had originally anticipated. Not only were the hours better and the pressures less; the inhabitants of the pond were remarkably receptive to the idea of insurance and he was doing excellent business when a heron, new to the area, swooped down and ate him.

  Regrettable; but, that’s nature for you, and it’s a comfort to reflect that his last conscious thought must have been relief that his loved ones would be adequately provided for by a comprehensive insurance package specially tailored to his needs and circumstances.

  Or would have done, if he’d had any loved ones, and if the policy hadn’t contained a special no-herons clause. But it’s the thought that counts.

  A scrumpled ball of paper looped through the air and added itself to the small pyramid on top of the waste-paper basket.

  Philly Nine yawned. It was late, he was tired, and he wanted to go to bed. Giant ants…

  He got up and prowled round the room. Nobody to blame but himself, of course; he’d chosen giant ants of his own free will. He could have had anything he liked, but no, he had to be clever.

  Ants, for pity’s sake.

  He sat down on the arm of a chair, closed his eyes and raffled his thoughts. What, he demanded of himself, do ants do?

  Well. They build nests. They run around aimlessly. They get into picnic baskets and scamper about over the boiled eggs. This, Philly had to admit, wasn’t exactly the stuff of Armageddon.

  They chew things up. With their snippy little mandibles, they make mincemeat out of old dry timber. They dig. When you pour boiling water on them, they die.

  He looked up at the clock on the wall, and shuddered. Would it be possible, he wondered, to claim a typographical error and instead have a plague of giant aunts? More scope there, he felt sure; something you could get your teeth into…

  Nah. It’d be just his luck to get found out; to annihilate humanity and then have the whole thing set aside on a technicality. Long gone were the old, free-and-easy days of his imphood when near enough made no mind. These days, you had to be precise. No good putting a princess to sleep for ninety-nine years, three hundred and sixty-four days, twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes. You could bet your life there’d be some weasel-faced little sod with a clipboard and a stopwatch somewhere, just willing you to foul up.

  Ants. Harmless, industrious, ecologically-friendly ants. Bastards.

  He snatched another piece of paper out of the packet and started to scribble.

  An anthill, he wrote, so big that it cuts off the light from a major European city. Giant ants undermining Beijing, so that it falls down to the centre of the earth. The New York subway system infested with giant ants…

  Scrumple. Whizz. Flop.

  He stood up again, and then sat down. Giant ants. Yes. Perhaps.

  Giant ants, he wrote. What causes giant ants? And whose fault would it be?

  Pay dirt. Ideas started to flood into his mind like water through a breached sea-wall, and he scribbled furiously. So furiously in fact, that it was half an hour before he realised he was writing on his best white linen tablecloth.

  Giant ants. Yes. Yes indeed.

  What do you call it when a genie has a really good idea?

  Genius.

  It was late. Even Saheed’s, which is never empty, was down to its last hard core of residual customers; a few sad types sitting at tables, two more playing the fruit machine, and one very sad customer with his foot on the brass rail.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” murmured the barman.

  Kiss scowled at him. “Not yet,” he grunted, and pushed his empty glass back across the counter. “Yogurt. Neat. No fruit.”

  The barman shrugged. He was, of course, only doing his job, and it was none of his business; but the idea of a Force Twelve wandering about with an attitude problem and five quarts of natural yogurt under his belt wasn’t an attractive one. He filled the glass and shoved it back.

  Time, he said to himself, to start a conversation. More goddamn unpaid social work.

  “What’s up, mac?” he enquired softly. He assessed the symptoms; it wasn’t difficult. “Trouble with your girl?”

  Kiss nodded.

  “You could say that,” he replied.

  The barman nodded sympathetically. “Found herself another guy, huh?”

  “No.”

  “I see. Just plain not interested, you mean?”

  “Far from it,” Kiss sighed. “That’s the problem.”

  Well, thought the barman, it takes all sorts. “You mean,” he said, “you can see it’s all over between you, but you can’t figure out how to tell her? That’s tough.”

  “No,” Kiss yawned, “it’s not that. We’re in love. Head over heels in bloody love.” He snarled. “Made in heaven, you could say.”

  “Ah.” The barman shrugged. “But there’s some reason why you can’t get together, is that it?”

  Kiss l
ifted his head and looked at him. “What is this,” he asked, “some sort of blasted sociological survey?”

  “Just passing the time, mac. Talking of which…”

  “Put another one in there,” Kiss said. “With a cream chaser.”

  “You’re the boss, mac.”

  “And stop calling me mac.”

  “You got it, chief.”

  There was a frantic chiming from the direction of the fruit machine and suddenly the floor was covered in oranges and lemons, tumbling out of the pay-out slot and rolling around on the floor. One came to rest beside Kiss’s heel. He stood on it.

  “I mean,” he said suddenly, in the general direction of the barman, “it’s not my fault, is it? I never asked to be the one to save the world.”

  “Yeah,” said the barman. “Have you seen what time it is, by the way?”

  “I don’t give…” Kiss leaned over, picked up an orange and squashed it into pulp between his thumb and middle finger. “I don’t give that for the world. None of my damn business.”

  “You said it, chief.”

  “But it’s my damn responsibility!” Kiss scowled horribly, and then looked down at his hand. “Hey, have you got a towel or something?”

  “Just a second.”

  “So why,” Kiss continued, wiping his hands, “does it have to be me? Go on, you tell me, it’s your stinking planet. Why me?”

  The barman shrugged. “Somebody’s got to do it?” he suggested.

  Kiss shook his head. “Not good enough,” he said. “I’m a genie, right? We’re…” He closed his eyes, fumbling through a fog of draught yogurt for the right words. “Free spirits,” he said. “No. Loose cannons. We do our own thing. That’s unless somebody gets us by the balls and makes us do theirs. But that,” he concluded defiantly, “goes with the territory. We can handle that.”

  “Glad to hear it, buddy.”

  In the background there was a dull squelch, as the fruit machine tried unsuccessfully to pay out a grapefruit through a four-inch slot. Kiss sighed.

  “You don’t want to hear all this, do you?” he asked.

  The barman looked at him with old, warm eyes. “I can take it,” he said, “I’ve heard worse.”

  Kiss nodded. “You must have heard it all,” he said.

  “Maybe.” The barman picked up a glass and polished it. “But maybe I wasn’t listening.”

  Somewhere in Kiss’s brain, the dinar dropped. “You’re a genie?” he asked softly.

  “You bet, squire.”

  “What Force?”

  The barman shrugged, breathed on the rim of the glass in his hands and eased away a mark. “Twelve,” he replied.

  “Twelve?” Kiss looked at him. “Then what the blazes are you doing in a dump like this?”

  The barman looked back, and his eyes were like the view through the wrong end of the binoculars. “Hey,” he said. “You know how it is when you’re bound by some curse to a bottle?”

  Kiss nodded.

  “Well, then.” The barman half-turned and with an eloquent but economical gesture he indicated the shelves behind him. “Me,” he said, “I got lots of bottles.”

  “Gawd!”

  “It’s not the way I’d have liked things to pan out,” the barman agreed. “But you find yourself in a situation, what can you do? Me, I serve drinks to people. That’s from six pee-em to maybe four-thirty ay-em. The rest of the time…”

  Kiss leaned forward. “Yes?”

  “The rest of the time’s my own,” the barman replied. “Same again, is it?”

  On his way home, Kiss turned out the cupboard under the stairs of his mind and found it to be mainly full of junk. There he found the ironing-board of duty, the broken torch of hope, the unwanted Christmas presents of obscure function that represent the random operations of fate, the dustpan of experience, the stepladder of aspiration, the hoover of despair; there also he found the raffia-covered Chianti-bottle table-lamp of love, which had seemed such a good idea at the time, which promised to cast light where before there was darkness and which now got under his feet whenever he wanted to get out the ironing-board. Its shade was as pink as ever, but its bulb had gone.

  Not, Kiss hastened to add, my fault. I’m the goddamn victim; and she is as well, of course, but she’s not expected to give up being a Force Twelve genie. His thoughts returned to the genie behind the bar at Saheed’s; another Force Twelve fallen on hard times. They could form a support group; well, not a group. The best they could do with the manpower available would be a very short, truncated heap.

  I’ve got to get myself out of this. But how?

  The inside of an ink-bottle turned out to be remarkably spacious, all things considered.

  Admittedly, you have to sit with your knees round your ears and your arms behind your back; and it doesn’t do to sneeze violently for fear of knocking yourself silly on the walls. The fact remains; getting six foot of retired fisherman inside three inches of bottle without pruning off several indispensable components is some achievement. Try it and see.

  “Let me OUT!”

  Some people, it seems, are never satisfied. There are successful young executives in the centre of Tokyo who pay good money for not much more lebensraum, and are glad to get it.

  “Are you deaf or something? Let me OUT!”

  Asaf paused to catch his breath. Yelling at the top of one’s voice in a confined space is physically demanding and, besides, it didn’t seem to be working.

  If I were a baby bird, he said to himself, and if this was an eggshell, I could peck my way out.

  Ah, but it isn’t. And you’re not.

  It would be overstating the case to say that Asaf stiffened, because after nine hours in the bottle he was pretty conclusively stiff already; but he went through the motions.

  There is someone, he said to himself, in here with me.

  Hope he’s as uncomfortable as I am.

  Not really. You get used to it after a while.

  This time, Asaf felt a definite twitch in his sphincter.

  Don’t be like that.

  “What?” Asaf said aloud. His voice, he couldn’t help noticing, seemed to be coming out through his socks; something to do with the rather unusual acoustics inside an ink-bottle.

  Hostile. I can definitely sense hostility. I’m only here because I thought you might be feeling lonely.

  “How the hell am I supposed to feel lonely in something this size?”

  Fair point. I’ll be going, then.

  “Wait!”

  Silence. But then again, he reflected, there would be, wouldn’t there? Since, apparently, whoever it was in here with him was either a disembodied spirit or…

  A telepath. Bit of both, actually. Go with the flow, that’s always been my motto.

  “Who are you?”

  Name? Or job description?

  “Both.”

  All-righty. My name’s Pivot, and I’m the duty GA.

  “GA?”

  Guardian angel. Since whatever it was, was simply a suggestion of words in his mind, there was no way it could actually sound embarrassed. But it somehow gave the impression.

  “Bit late, aren’t you?” Asaf grumbled. “Nine hours ago I could have used you.”

  I know, Pivot replied. But like I said, I’m duty GA for this whole sector. I got held up on a call the other side of Bazrah. I came as quick as I could.

  “I see.” Asaf took a deep breath; or at least, the top slice of one. “Well, now you’re here…”

  I can keep your morale up and comfort you with homely snippets of folk wisdom and popular philosophy.

  “That’s it?”

  Sorry.

  “Like, It’s a funny old world, that sort of thing?”

  You’ve got the idea.

  “Fine. Well, I expect you’ve got lots of other calls to attend to, so don’t let me…”

  I know, replied Pivot sadly, it’s not exactly a great help. But that’s all I’m able to do for you under the scheme. Lots
of people actually do find it remarkably helpful.

  “I see.”

  If you were being tortured, of course, or even briskly interrogated, that’d be another matter entirely. I could remind you of your rights and exhort you to display fortitude and moral courage in the face of adversity.

  “Gosh. Well, it’s just as well I’m not, then, isn’t it?”

  There was silence in Asaf’s mind for a while, and he spent the time thinking all the most uncharitable thoughts he could muster, in the hope of persuading Pivot to leave quickly.

  It’d be different if you were a fee-paying client, of course.

  “Sorry?”

  Morale-raising and verbal comfort are all I’m allowed to offer under the scheme. If you want to go private, of course, I’m sure I could be even more helpful still.

  “Such as?”

  Such as getting you out of here, for a start.

  “Done.”

  Plus, there’s our fully comprehensive after-care package, of course. We don’t just ditch our clients the moment they get out of the bottle; oh dear, no. We can offer advice on a wide spectrum of issues, including financial advice, investment strategy, pensions…

  “Whatever you like. Just get me out of—”

  If you’d just care to sign this client services agreement. There, there and there…

  Asaf growled ominously. “I’d just like to point out,” he said, “that my hands are wedged against the side of this bottle so hard my circulation stopped about seven hours ago. I think signing anything’s going to be a bit tricky.”

  Oh. Oh, that is a nuisance. Because, you see, the rules say I can’t really do anything for you unless you sign the forms. I have my compliance certificate to think of, you know.

  Asaf gritted his teeth. “I promise I’ll sign them the moment I’m free,” he said. “Word of honour.”

  Ah yes, Pivot replied, but how do I know you’re not a FIMBRA agent in disguise? You could be trying to entrap me.

  “Why not-take the risk? I’ll have you know I’m shortly going to come into wealth beyond the dreams of avarice.” He paused significantly. “I shall need,” he said, biting his tongue, “all sorts of financial advice, I feel sure.”