by Tom Holt
(b) adhere to any faith sect religion or philosophy whose precepts do not acknowledge the existence of the purchasers
(c) notwithstanding the provisions of the Unfair Contract Terms Act 1968, seek by any act of repentance, absolution, contrition, or charitable good works to frustrate the terms of this contract by incurring divine forgiveness
And yet another bizarre thing. When they’d been talking, after Cassie had given him the folder to take away, and he’d happened to mention that he’d got pins and needles in his foot - deja vu, or whatever it was called: it was as though she’d heard him say exactly those words before. She could practically hear his voice in her head, except that it wasn’t his voice, and when she tried to listen, it faded away. That was definitely part of it; a feeling that she knew him from somewhere, except that it wasn’t him really, just someone identical to him in every respect.
(8). In the event that the Day of Judgement shall occur during the term of this contract, or such other event as may cause the heavens to be opened and the dead to be raised incorruptible, the vendor and the purchasers agree and declare that all issues hereunder arising shall be referred to arbitration in accordance with the provisions of Schedule 16 hereof, the arbitrator’s decision to have effect as though it was an express term of this agreement
Cassie read Clause 8 over again, but her eyes kept slipping off the words like court shoes on a polished floor. That was supposed to be another symptom, wasn’t it, not being able to concentrate at work? Stuff it, she thought, I can’t go on like this; can’t even proof-read a basic standard-form contract without my attention wandering. She stood up, pushed her hair back over her ears, sat down again. Concentrate, dammit.
She couldn’t.
‘Bugger,’ she said aloud, and went to see Connie.
But Connie wasn’t in her office, so Cassie traipsed up three flights of stairs, across two landings and along a very long corridor, to see if Benny Shumway was back from the Bank yet. She was just in time to see the little plywood door in the far wall of his office opening, and Benny clambering through, slamming the door shut and shooting back the seven sturdy bolts. He looked more than usually hassled, and she waited until he’d sat down, taken several deep breaths and wiped the blood off his hands with a swathe of paper towel before she said anything.
‘Did they give you a hard time?’ Cassie asked.
Benny shook his head. ‘No worse than usual,’ he replied, then closed his eyes for a moment. ‘It’s since we started using the goats instead of doves. Sometimes I wish we hadn’t switched over from Barclays. Anyhow,’ he went on, lighting up the trademark Shumway smile (how many times had he been married?
He’d told her, several times, but she couldn’t remember offhand), ‘how’s life in Mergers and Acquisitions?’
She shrugged. ‘Boring,’ she replied. ‘I don’t know, I just can’t seem to keep my mind on my work right now.’
The smile morphed into the equally characteristic Shumway grin. She scowled. ‘Don’t start,’ she said.
‘I wasn’t starting, promise. And besides, a man can dream.’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘All right.’ Benny held up his hands. ‘So it isn’t that, then. What is it? You aren’t fretting over these stupid assessments, are you?’
‘Maybe,’ she lied. ‘Had yours yet?’
He shook his head. ‘But Connie dropped in just before I left for the Bank.’ He raised his eyebrows and sighed. ‘Mind you, she always was the fearless kind. Fearless as two short planks, as my old boss at Robertson’s used to say. And she always gets away with it, too.’
Cassie smiled. ‘I think it helps that she’s too good at her job to sack.’
‘There’s that,’ Benny conceded. ‘But there’s more to it, I think. Really, she’s wasted in Mineral Rights. Should’ve gone in for Pest Control years ago.’ The grin broke out again. ‘She’d have looked pretty cute in chain mail.’
‘I’ll tell her you said that.’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Benny replied quickly. ‘I have nothing but the deepest respect for Connie, bordering on abject terror.’
‘I’ll have to tell her you said that,’ Cassie replied, with a smile. ‘So, come on, what’ve you found out about Them? You’re always saying how nothing happens in this business without you knowing about it first.’
‘I know,’ Benny said ruefully. ‘For once, however, colour me clueless. Not for want of asking around; but the weird thing is, nobody seems to know anything. Which leads me to the conclusion’
‘That They aren’t in the business at all,’ Cassie interrupted.
‘Like Connie was saying. The creep not having heard of Mortimers, and so forth.’
Benny nodded. ‘And that just doesn’t make sense. For one thing, it’s not allowed. Outsiders can’t go around buying into the business, there’s rules about that sort of thing, understandably. I think there’s even a British Standard or something.’
Cassie picked up a paper clip and started to unbend it. ‘One of these days,’ she said, ‘you’re going to have to tell me exactly what did happen, when all the old partners left, and’
‘They didn’t leave,’ Benny said, with a deep chuckle. ‘Let’s see. Theo Van Spee was killed, ditto Ricky Wurmtoter; last we heard of Judy di CasteP Bianco, she was permanently marooned on the Isle of Avalon; and Humph Wells got turned into a photocopier.’
Cassie couldn’t help shuddering a little at that. ‘Not the big old one in the computer room?’ she said. ‘The one that always chews up spreadsheets.’
Benny laughed. ‘Nah. Humph broke down about three months before you joined, and he was an old model, we couldn’t get the parts. He’s up in the roof space somewhere, along with the broken chairs and the old VAT receipts.’
‘Yetch.’
‘Don’t worry, he asked for it. Long story, I’ll tell you about it some time. No, it’s a rough old game we’re in, and from time to time bad stuff happens. You know that.’
‘Of course. But losing so many partners one after another’
‘You’re starting to sound like Lady Bracknell.’
‘I’ve heard people talking about some bloke called Carpenter,’ Cassie said. ‘Apparently it was all his fault.’
‘Up to a point,’ Benny replied. ‘Paul Carpenter and Sophie Pettingell. Last heard of happily married and fabulously rich somewhere in New Zealand.’ He paused. ‘You didn’t come here because you’re fascinated by industrial history. What’s the matter?’
‘And wasn’t there another partner, Kurt something, who came to a bad end?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘All right.’ She frowned. ‘God knows why I’m telling you, of all people. You’ll just do your lewd grin and make unregenerate sexist remarks.’
Benny rubbed his hands together. ‘You bet. Go on.’
So Cassie told him; about Colin Hollingshead, and the phone call, and even pins and needles. To her complete surprise, however, Benny didn’t leer, grin, snigger or say things. He hardly moved at all, except that while she was explaining about the deja-vu thing he frowned deeply and put his hand in front of his mouth.
‘Is that it?’ he said.
‘Yes, I think so. You’re pretty quiet.’
He nodded. ‘A bit weird, if you ask me.’
‘Coming from you’ She glanced across at the plywood door, with its seven massive bolts. ‘Now I’m really starting to worry.’
‘Don’t,’ he said quickly. ‘Honestly, I don’t think it’s something horrible, anything like that. Actually, it sort of reminds me of something, but buggered if I can remember what.’
‘You’re a great help.’
‘Proverbially,’ Benny said graciously, ‘but not on this occasion. Not yet, anyhow, but I promise I’ll give it some thought.’ Suddenly, his face lit up in a huge, no-holds-barred smile that took Cassie completely by surprise. ‘We’ll figure it out, don’t you worry. Meanwhile,’ he went on - the smile vanished as
suddenly as it had appeared - ‘I’d better get on with some work. Fortunately, I can think and do mental long division at the same time.’
Cassie headed back to her office. As she was passing the closed file store, she very nearly collided with the palefaced girl whose name nobody seemed able to remember. She apologised. The palefaced girl looked at her intensely for a moment, as if reading small print reflected in Cassie’s eyes.
‘That’s all right,’ said the pale girl. ‘It wasn’t your fault, though you weren’t looking where you were going. But I came round the corner too fast, and I should’ve kept to my side of the corridor. I could easily have trodden on your foot if you hadn’t swerved at the last moment.’
‘Ah,’ Cassie said.
‘So really, it’s me who owes you an apology.’
‘Oh well,’ Cassie said. ‘That’s all right.’
‘Thank you,’ the palefaced girl said gravely. ‘In return, please accept this gift as a token of my appreciation for your forbearance.’
She held out her hand; the fingers were clamped tight around something, and the knuckles were white.
‘Gift?’ Cassie repeated.
‘Present,’ the thin-faced girl explained. ‘Go on, please take it. It’s all right, it won’t bite or anything.’
Cassie looked at the outstretched hand and made no move. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said cautiously. ‘What is it?’
‘Take it and you can see for yourself.’
‘Would you mind awfully telling me what it is first?’
The thin-faced girl’s eyebrows cuddled together, then parted. ‘Oh, it’s nothing really. Just a small glass bead.’
‘Ah.’
‘It does, however,’ the thin-faced girl went on, ‘have some interesting properties. If you hold it up to the light and look into it, you can see the face of your own true love.’
‘Gosh,’ Cassie said; and she was about to add that it was a really, really nice thought but even so, if it was all the same to her, she’d pass on it just for now, when the thin-faced girl grabbed her by the wrist and pressed something small, round and hard into the palm of her hand. ‘Well, bye for now,’ she said. ‘And if you want to drop by my office later on and tell me what you saw in there, do please feel free. There’s nothing I enjoy more than some really juicy girl-to-girl gossip.’
The thin-faced girl opened the door of the closed file store and went inside. Cassie wasn’t sure, but she had an idea that she heard the click of a lock, or the graunch of a bolt. You don’t have to be weird to work here, she thought, but
On her desk, when she got back to it, was a small stack of those little red-and-white While-You-Were-Out notes. All of them urged her to phone Mr Hollingshead, at Hollingshead and Farren, ASAP. She sat down, realising that she was still holding in her hand the small round thing that the loony girl had given her. She opened her hand, and something dropped onto her desk, bouncing and rolling a bit before finally coming to rest beside her stapler. After all that, it turned out to be nothing more exciting than a perfectly ordinary kid’s marble. Then she picked up her phone and called the front desk.
“Which Mr Hollingshead?’ she asked.
‘You what?’ replied Rosie on reception.
‘There’s more than one of them,’ Cassie explained. ‘An old one and a young one.’ Pause. ‘You left a note on my desk saying I’ve got to call back a Mr Hollingshead, of Holl’
‘Yes, all right. No need to make a three-hour bloody mini-series out of it.’
‘Sorry. Look, did he say which one he was?’
‘No.’
‘All right,’ Cassie said, driving away the small yapping Yorkshire terrier of frustration from around her mind’s ankles. ‘Did he sound old or young?’
‘Search me. All you humans sound the same.’
‘Look’ Cassie snapped; but Rosie on reception went on: ‘He sounded really pissed off and swore a lot, if that’s any help.’
‘Ah,’ Cassie said. ‘That’ll be Mr Hollingshead senior.’
‘There you go, then.’
Cassie put the phone down and picked up the file, which was on her desk where she’d left it. Father Hollingshead, calling to ask about some detail of the draft contract. For some reason, she felt mortally disappointed. But why?
She found the number on the information docket stapled to the back cover of the file and dialled it.
‘At last,’ said Mr Hollingshead. ‘I called five times.’
‘Six, actually,’ Cassie replied amiably. ‘How can I help?’
‘It’s this Clause Three. What the bloody hell is it supposed to mean?’
So she explained Clause Three. This process required no conscious thought whatsoever; she’d explained that clause, or clauses just like it, a hundred times to a hundred different clients. She wasn’t even listening to herself. Instead she was thinking, if Benny Shumway thinks it’s weird, it must be really out-of-this-world bizarre; and then he tells me not to worry about it. Yes, right. No problem, I’ll dismiss it from my mind this instant. Like hell I will.
‘And that,’ she caught herself saying, ‘is all there is to it, really.’
‘I see,’ grumbled Mr Hollingshead. ‘Then why in buggery can’t you just say that, instead of wrapping it up in all that legalese bullshit?’
‘Why indeed?’ Cassie replied. ‘Well, actually, it’s because a contract like this is a highly technical document, and all the words in it have very specialised meanings, which aren’t necessarily the same as in everyday speech, so’
‘And another thing. Schedule Five, paragraph two, five lines up from the bottom.’
‘What? Oh yes, the jurisdiction clause. What about it?’
‘I can’t understand a bloody word of it. What’s all this about the Acapulco Convention, for a start?’
So Cassie explained about conflicts of jurisdiction, and how some kinds of dispute that might arise from the contract could be dealt with by an ordinary County Court in Britain, while other kinds would have to be referred to the Supreme Tribunal of Absolute Evil in Pandaemonium ‘It’s a bit of a pain,’ she conceded, ‘but I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about that, it’s a standard clause, take it or leave it. Besides,’ she went on, ‘that sort of dispute is pretty unlikely to crop up, it’s only really relevant if’
‘Fine,’ grunted Mr Hollingshead, ‘so what’s all this in Schedule Ten, Section 6B? You never mentioned any of this shit at the meeting.’
Ten more minutes of that sort of thing; which was good in a sense, because it meant that Cassie could score another two six-minute units on her time sheet, which in turn meant a proportionate increase in Mr Hollingshead’s bill, about which he would unquestionably complain bitterly. Fine. Then a little crackle of inspiration jumped her mental points.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘obviously there’s quite a lot in the draft contract that we need to talk about, so wouldn’t it make more sense to go over it together face to face rather than on the phone? If you could maybe drop by the office’
Derisory snort. ‘No chance. Far too busy.’
‘That’s all right,’ Cassie said smoothly, ‘I’ll come and see you. Would ten-fifteen tomorrow morning suit you?’
Pause; silence of a man who should’ve seen it coming. ‘Yes, all right. We can get it all sorted and out of the way, and then maybe we can get on and see some action. Ten-fifteen sharp.’
‘As a needle,’ Cassie said cheerfully. ‘Goodbye.’
She put the phone down and leant back in her chair. So, she thought; so tomorrow I’m going to where he lives, to see his old Dad. Maybe he’ll be sitting in on the meeting too, in which case In which case what, though? Still no trace of an answer to that question.
Sigh. She dumped the corrected draft of the contract into her out-tray, with a yellow sticky attached that read Revised draft by 9.15 a.m. tomorrow, please. The sooner the contract was signed and out of the way, the sooner she could close the file, bang in a whopping great bill and move on
to something else. Wouldn’t that be nice.
Something caught her eye; that stupid marble, the present from the thin girl. On a whim Cassie picked it up and held it up to the light, but all she could see was the little red swirly bit in the middle.
That evening, on her return to her small, expensive flat in Chessington, she found six messages on her answering machine. Messages one to five inclusive were from her mother. Message six, on the other hand, was a bit odd. She couldn’t make out what it was; either birdsong, or someone whistling very badly, or the warble of an unusually melodious fax machine. She played it through three times out of sheer naked curiosity; then she deleted it and went to bed.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘I’m in here,’ Dad growled.
With his default now-what-am-I-supposed-to-have-done? grimace on his face, Colin followed Dad into the study and sat down. He noticed that the green file he’d been to London to collect was open on the desk.
‘That bird you went to see the other day,’ Dad barked, ‘is coming in at quarter past ten.’
Colin hadn’t been expecting that. ‘Oh yes?’ he said.
‘I’ve decided that you’d better sit in on the meeting,’ Dad went on. He was pacing up and down, tense and majestic as a caged lion. That wasn’t like him; usually he lounged in his expensive office chair, into which he fitted the way a pint of beer fits into a mug. ‘All right?’
Another odd thing, because Colin’s consent wasn’t usually asked for; it was one of those commodities where supply vastly exceeded demand. ‘Sure,’ he said (and he was thinking: her? Coming here? And his right foot was already starting to tingle).
‘And before she gets here’ Dad had his back to him. ‘Before she gets here, there’s a few things you need to know, so sit quiet and don’t interrupt. Got that?’
Colin nodded, realised Dad couldn’t see him, and squeaked, ‘Yes.’ Dad sighed, took a long stride forward, like a fencer lunging, and poured himself a medium-large glass of whisky from the bottle that lived on top of the filing cabinet.