Doughnut

by Tom Holt

  He looked at his room – the desk, the mountain of small paper darts made from Pieter’s printout – and decided he needed to be somewhere else for a while. Just for a split second, he considered taking to the bottle. He could sort of see the attraction of a restful hour in an alternative reality at a time like this; a universe in which Pieter van Goyen had died at birth, for example, or a place in which the loudest sound ever recorded was a leaf drifting down to the forest floor. But there was no chance that the bottle would take him anywhere like that, so he wandered down to the lobby instead.

  Matasuntha was sitting at the reception desk. Pointless, he thought, because now he knew what was going on, what was the point of pretending this place was a hotel? She turned to give him a reproachful look, then shrugged and smiled. “How’s it going?”

  “Nowhere,” he replied.

  “Not your fault.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not your fault you can’t figure out how to make it work,” she said. “If you ask me, Uncle Bill’s being pretty unreasonable asking you to. But he’s desperate, bless him.”

  “I know. All that money.”

  She nodded. “I don’t think he’d be so worried if it was just his money,” she said. “But it’s mine, and Mr Nordstrom’s, and Mrs Duchene-Wilamowicz’stoo. He feels responsible.”

  “Indeed.” Theo perched on the edge of the desk. “That drip-drip noise you can hear is my heart bleeding.” He sighed; he felt he ought to be hostile and unpleasant, but it was too much effort. “Losing lots of money isn’t that big a deal,” he said. “Trust me, I know all about it.”

  She grinned at him. “It’s made you a better person, right?”

  “Well, no. It’s made me a thinner, shabbier, more miserable person stranded in a pseudo-hotel with a lot of lunatics because he’s got nowhere else to go. Apart from that, though, it’s not so bad. As you’ll find out for yourself quite soon, I imagine.”

  “Thank you so much.” She gave him a sort of mock-frown. “Well, I’ll try and handle poverty with the same grace and dignity you’re showing. Aren’t I lucky to have such a splendid role model?”

  “You bet. I had to make do with Gandhi and St Francis of Assisi, which probably explains why I’m such a mess.” He stopped short and stared at her. “What are you doing?”

  She looked up at him. “My face, what does it look like?”

  “Where did you get that?”

  “What, this?” She held up her powder compact for him to inspect. “Actually, I’m not sure.”

  “Think.”

  “Lancôme?” She squinted at the compact. “No, definitely not. Too pink. Now I come to think of it, I found it. On the floor, down in the wine cellar.”

  He swooped like a hawk and snatched it from her hand. “Hey,” she said, but he was holding it up to the light, looking for –

  “Do you mind?” she said. “I haven’t finished with it yet. I’ve got one half of my face glossy and the other half matte.”

  “Start a fashion,” Theo snapped. He’d found something. “In the drawer, there’s a magnifying glass. Quickly.”

  She scowled at him, but he wasn’t looking, so she fished out the glass and handed it to him. “Well?” she said. “What’s so earth-shatteringly urgent?”

  “P V G,” Theo replied. “There, see for yourself.” He handed her the glass and the compact. “Looks to me like it was scratched on with a pin or a compass point or something.”

  “Stupendous,” she said. “I still don’t quite see why I can’t powder the other side of my nose.”

  “P V G. Pieter van Goyen.” He breathed out slowly through his nose. “It’s mine,” he said. “Pieter left it to me in his will.”

  “Fancy that. Other people get houses and money.”

  “It was in my pocket. I forgot about it till just now, and then I found there was a hole and it must’ve fallen through.”

  “Aren’t you lucky I found it, then?”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Now can I—?”

  “What? Yes, sure. No,” he amended quickly, snatching it back from her. He felt for a catch or something to open it, but there didn’t seem to be anything like that. Matasuntha watched him for a while, then sighed. “Give it here,” she said.

  “No. It’s mine.”

  “All right, it’s yours. Now give it here and I’ll show you how to open it.”

  He hesitated. “I can manage.”

  “No you can’t.”

  “I’m a quantum physicist,” he muttered, scrabbling with his fingernails at the seam. “I can open a goddamn powder compact—”

  “You’re a man,” she replied. He sighed, nodded and handed it to her. She opened it and gave it back.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Tie your shoelaces for you later, if you ask nicely.”

  He was staring into the mirror in the lid, but all he could see there was a bewildered idiot, and he could look at one of those any time he liked. He picked out the little pink sponge thing, but under it there was only pink powder. “Is that it?”

  “What?”

  “There aren’t any hidden compartments of anything?”

  “Well, usually there’s a network of tunnels leading to the hinge. No, of course not.”

  He stared, then breathed out slowly through his nose, misting the mirror. “Sod it,” he said. “I was so certain I was on to something.” He looked away. The idiot was now a blurred idiot, and it was getting on his nerves. “I thought, maybe Pieter had hidden a message or something—”

  “Look.”

  The mirror was demisting itself, and, as the cloud dissipated, he saw that the idiot had gone. In its place –

  “The magnifier, quick,” he snapped, but she was already holding it out. He grabbed it and screwed up his eyes to read the tiny words on the screen. “Is this normal?” he asked.

  “No,” she replied. “Move your head, I can’t see.”

  It occurred to him that maybe he didn’t want Matasuntha reading Pieter’s hidden message to him over his shoulder. But it was too late to do anything about that now, not unless he wanted to make an official declaration of war. He moved his head a little. “You can read that?”

  “Mphm.”

  “You must have eyes like a hawk.”

  “Small, round and yellow. You say the sweetest things.” He moved the glass closer, and the words came into focus. His breath caught in his throat as he made out –

  YouSpace 1.1

  User’s Manual

  “Oh, my God,” Matasuntha said softly.

  Theo moaned quietly. “I’ve been carrying it around with me all this time—”

  “Correction,” she pointed out. “You dropped it. I found it.”

  “Yes, well.” He frowned. “What happened? Why didn’t it do this when you opened it?”

  She shrugged. “At a guess, DNA recognition security protocols. It only came on when you breathed on it.”

  “Ah, right.” He stared a moment or so longer, then scowled. “It’s stuck. How do I make it scroll down?”

  “I don’t know, do I?” She clicked her tongue. “You’re the science wiz, as you never seem to tire of reminding me, you figure it out.”

  He tried. He prodded the hinges, stroked the rim with his fingertip, tapped on the lid, ran his fingernail over the mirror: nothing. The original message grinned back at him unchanged.

  “This is hopeless,” he snapped. “Useless frigging thing—”

  “You’re going to hit it now, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Well, like I said, you’re a man. You’ve done the swearing-at-it thing, so hitting’s obviously next. Try talking to it.”

  “Don’t be so—” He stopped. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Next.” Immediately, the screen cleared and was replaced by a column headed List of Contents. He didn’t turn his head; but he could feel her smirk burning the skin on the back of his neck. “Right,” he
said. “Let’s see.” He moved the glass forward again and said aloud: “Getting Started.”

  The screen changed. The phone rang.

  Theo froze. The phone rang again, and Matasuntha picked it up and said, “Hello?” He shook himself, and crouched forward to read the next menu, as Matasuntha said, “Who’s calling please?” in her best receptionist’s voice. 1.1. Security protocols –

  “It’s for you.”

  “What?”

  She was holding the phone out for him to take. He scowled horribly at it. “Take a message.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He made a terrible sighing noise, then grabbed the phone and snapped, “Yes?”

  “Theo Bernstein?” A man’s voice, unfamiliar.

  “Yes. Look, I’m really busy right now—”

  “Armed police. We have the hotel surrounded.”

  YouSpace isn’t the only place where a fraction of a second can last for years. A fraction of a second later, he managed to mumble, “You what?”

  “Armed police. Throw out your weapon and come out with your hands up.”

  Matasuntha gave him a sympathetic shrug. A nice thought, but it didn’t really help much. “I haven’t got a weapon,” Theo said.

  “Oh. Hold the line, please.”

  “I think Uncle Bill’s got a baseball bat you could borrow,” Matasuntha whispered. “If it’d make things easier.”

  “Hello? Mr Bernstein?”

  “Hello, yes?”

  “Are you quite sure you haven’t got a weapon?”

  “Yes.”

  “In that case, come out with your hands up.”

  “But—”

  Click, whirr. Theo stared at the phone, then put it back. “I thought you said—”

  “Mphm. I thought so too. Maybe Uncle Bill changed his mind or something.” She shrugged. “You’d better go out,” she said. “I’ll get Uncle Bill and we’ll come down to the station and sort it all out, I promise.”

  He looked at her, then at the compact in his hand. He really didn’t want to, but –

  “Here,” he said, “you take this. Look after it, all right?”

  “Thanks.” She took the compact, picked up the sponge and started dabbing at her nose. “Well, go on, then,” she said. “Otherwise they’ll be kicking the door down.”

  He turned to go; she stood up quickly, darted in front of him and kissed him hard on the mouth. “Try not to get shot,” she said. “Promise?”

  Theo nodded dumbly and headed for the door. He opened it and peered outside. There didn’t seem to be anybody about. Feeling more than a little foolish, he lifted both arms above his head, like a Chicago voter in a show of hands, and walked forward.

  “Hold it right there,” said a voice. “And don’t try anything smart.”

  There was something about the voice. It was doing its best, bless it; the words were rasped out and bitten off, with a definite attempt at menace, but the voice itself was high and thin. “Hello?” Theo called out. “Where are you, I can’t—”

  “Shut it,” quavered the voice. “All right, throw down your weapons and—”

  “Um,” Theo said. “We’ve been through all that already, I haven’t got any.”

  “Positive?”

  “I think I’d have noticed.”

  A clump of the head-high nettles that grew up through the tarmac of the hotel drive parted, and two men came out. One of them was well over six feet tall, fair-haired, skinny, roughly seventeen years old and fitted with the biggest ears Theo had ever seen on a human being. He was eating a sandwich. The other man was tiny and somewhere between ninety and a hundred and six, and wore a jet-black curly wig that wasn’t on quite straight. It made him look a bit like a freeze-dried Elvis. “Don’t move,” he said. “Or we’ll drop you where you stand.”

  Theo stared at him. “You’re not a policeman,” he said.

  The old man gave him a wounded glare. “Thirty years,” he said. “Best motor pool superintendent they ever had. And once a cop, always—”

  “And neither is he.”

  The old man looked sheepish. “That’s my grandson,” he said. “Learning the business, he is. Good lad, very keen.” The good lad finished his sandwich and produced another one from his pocket. “Lunchbox, they call him,” the old man said resignedly, “because he’s always stuffing his face. But keen as mustard, really.”

  The boy gobbled the last mouthful and immediately switched to standby mode. Theo lowered his arms and massaged his triceps. “And you’re not armed,” he pointed out. “Are you?”

  “Technically, no. But don’t you try anything,” the old man added quickly, “or he’ll do you. He could snap your neck like a twig if he wanted to.”

  The boy carried on doing his impression of a radio mast. Theo sighed. “What’s all this about?” he said.

  “We got this for you.” The old man poked his glasses on to the bridge of his nose, rummaged in his pockets and produced a matchbox, an appallingly filthy handkerchief, a crumpled paper bag and a folded sheet of paper, which he thrust in Theo’s direction. “Summons,” he said.

  “What for?”

  “Breach of injunction,” the old man replied. Theo shrugged and stepped forward to take the paper; the old man shrank back, and Lunchbox stepped neatly behind him. Theo took the paper and unfolded it.

  “Oh for crying out loud,” he said. “She phoned me.”

  “None of our business,” the old man whimpered, “we just do as we’re told, so don’t go getting violent. I just got to say the word, and he’ll do you, like I said.”

  Lunchbox was unwrapping a chocolate Swiss roll. “Fine,” Theo said. “So, Janine sent you.”

  “The plaintiff,” the old man said.

  Theo raised an eyebrow. “No offence,” he said, “but I’d have thought she could’ve afforded better. I mean, look at you.”

  “Bugger that,” the old man said angrily. “We’re the best, we are. Twenty-five years in the trade, mate, seen it all, trouble is our business. For crying out loud, Arthur,” he added, without turning round, as Lunchbox took out his phone and started texting furiously, “not when we’re on a job, all right?”

  Lunchbox took no notice. The old man shrugged. “Anyhow,” he said, “you’ve got your bit of paper and that’s due service, so there’s no point trying any rough stuff, and even if you did—”

  “I know,” Theo said, “neck snapped like a twig.” He folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “Have you two been watching me?”

  The old man nodded. “Kept you under surveillance ever since you got here,” he said. “Don’t get out much, do you?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Theo replied. “Look, could you please ask Janine from me to make up her mind? Either she never wants to see or hear from me again, or she can call me, that’s fine. Let me know what she decides, all right?”

  “Not up to us, is it?” The old man looked vaguely shocked. “You don’t catch us telling the client what to do. You want to ask her something, write to her lawyers.”

  “Ah. I’m allowed to do that, am I?”

  “Try it and see. Anyhow, don’t let us keep you. Come on, Arthur,” he added, as Lunchbox unwrapped an individual pork pie. “You’d think he’d be as fat as a barrel, but look at him.”

  Theo went back inside. Matasuntha had gone, but the powder compact was still on the desk. For some reason, that made him feel happy. He picked it up and went back to his room.

  She was there, sitting in the one chair, stirring a cup of coffee. “Hi,” she said. “You didn’t get shot then?”

  “Apparently not. What are you doing here?”

  As he said the words, he saw that there were two coffee mugs on the desk. “I had every confidence you’d beat the rap,” she said. “Milk and sugar?”

  “They weren’t real policemen.”

  She grinned. “Thought not. I took the call, remember? And I don’t think there’s many ninety-year-old policemen, or at least not assigned to the SWA
T teams. Who was it?”

  He explained, about Janine and the injunction, and was rewarded with an appropriately bewildered look. “Your sister’s having you followed?”

  “I tell myself it’s a sign of affection, like the way some cats bite you to the bone,” he said. “But I don’t think it is, really.”

  “No?”

  “No. I think it’s because she’s sick in the head and fundamentally nasty. But what the hell, nobody’s perfect.”

  She gave him a second and a half of sympathetic grimacing, then said, “You found the compact?”

  “Yes.”

  “I left it,” she said, “so you’d see how honest and trustworthy I am.”

  “And it’s DNA-encoded so only I can make it work.”

  “That too. Well? Let’s see it.”

  He sighed. On the other hand, said a small voice in his head, it’d be quite nice to have some company for a change, instead of having to do it all on your own. He thought about that, and could see the merit in it. That said, he recognised that small internal voice. It was the same one that had urged him to propose to his third wife. But, he rationalised, getting rid of her would be more trouble than letting her stay. “Here,” he said, and put the compact on the table.

  She was frowning. “That’s so weird,” she said, and he realised he’d been using his invisible hand. “Can’t you put a glove over it or something?”

  “Sure,” he said. “But all that’d happen would be, I’d be wearing an invisible glove.”

  “Whatever.” She shrugged, then gave him an accusing frown. “Oh, and you never answered my question.”

  “What? Which question?”

  “Milk and sugar?”

  “What? Oh. Yes.”

  “Milk and sugar.”

  “Yes.”

  “Help yourself.” She pointed at a carton and a small bowl of sugar lumps, and bent her head over the compact. The mirror reflected her face, and that was all. “Presumably we can download this into a laptop or something,” she said, frowning.

  “No idea,” Theo replied, putting his mug on the desk and leaning over her shoulder. “I think I’d better have the chair,” he said.