by Tom Holt
‘Sale and purchase,’ he repeated. ‘Sale and purchase of what?’
It was the step off the escalator, when you try and put your full weight on thin air. ‘The usual,’ she said. ‘You know. A Section Thirty-two transfer, no set term, with consideration in kind and the equity of redemption barred with a McEwan clause.’
‘Ah. Right.’ He scratched the side of his neck. ‘One of them. As you say, a piece of bread.’
‘Cake.’
‘Cake. Well, I think that’s enough for now. Thank you for your time, Ms Clay.’
‘Does that mean I can go now?’
‘Yes.’
So Cassie went, glancing at her watch as she did so. An hour till going-home time, which she spent staring at the Hollingshead file without taking in a single word. It was as though that loathsome hour between three and four a.m., when you lie awake fretting yourself to death over some trivial worry that evaporates completely in daylight, had lasted all day. It wasn’t like her, she told herself. Normally, she went after problems like a ferret after a rat; grabbed them, dragged them out into the light and dealt with them. But the key to that admirable approach was being able to identify what the problem actually’ was.
At five past five, Mr Tanner came in to ask her for the Delgado file, which the auditors were apparently demanding to see. Cassie considered asking him if he could shed any light on the problem, but she decided not to. For one thing, he had the harassed look of a man who’s been fetching and carrying files and ledgers for a pack of grim-faced accountants for several days, which meant that he probably wasn’t in the mood. For another, she still wasn’t any closer to figuring out what the problem actually was.
At five twenty-five, she got up, put the file in the cabinet, sighed and took it out again, slung it in her briefcase (when she’d first joined the profession, she’d taken a solemn and dreadful oath never to take work home with her; the Furies that enforce such solemn oaths swore at her, but she ignored them). It was important to be out of the office by five-thirty prompt, because that was when the doors were locked and the building’s other occupants came out of hiding to play. They were, in fact, relatives of Mr Tanner, the partner in charge of the mining and mineral rights department, and they hadn’t actually eaten anybody in years, but there was no point pushing your luck.
On the stairs she met up with Connie Schwartz-Alberich and Benny Shumway, and her inner Miss Marple deduced (on the basis of a tiny bit of body language and a bucketful of intuition) that running into them wasn’t just a coincidence.
‘Cassie,’ Connie called out, before she could get away, ‘we’re just popping down the road for a drink. Join us?’
Which proved just what a clever old biddy her inner Miss Marple was. Connie Schwartz-Alberich never indulged in after-work drinking bouts; she went straight home like a racing pigeon. What Benny did in the evenings, nobody knew or wanted to know, but it didn’t involve bending a congenial elbow with his co-workers. Cassie sighed. Probably they just wanted to hear all about her stupid assessment thing. The weight of the file in her briefcase tipped the balance, so to speak. ‘Love to,’ she said.
While Benny was at the bar getting the drinks, Connie settled herself in her seat on the other side of the table and folded her hands. It was more than Cassie could resist.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘You’re going to ask me where I see myself in five years’ time.’
Connie frowned, but the frown quickly warped into a grin. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Were we being obvious?’
‘The purpose of this outing was better signposted than Birmingham, yes,’ Cassie replied. ‘But that’s all right.’ She felt something loosen up inside her; it was a bit like slipping out of your office shoes on a hot day. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘yes, I’ve been acting bloody weird for a few days now, and yes, I’d really like to talk about it.’
‘Thought so,’ Benny said, an inch or less from her left ear. ‘Yours was the orange and bitter lemon, right? Well, of course it is, because Connie and me’d sooner be eaten by rats than drink that stuff. Peanut?’
‘Shut up, Benny,’ Connie said, before Cassie could accept (she liked peanuts).
‘Right, begin at the beginning. It’s not that skinny bloke from Moss Berwick, is it, the one with the neck like a turkey? I could’ve told you straight away he’d be nothing but trouble.’
‘Who?’ Cassie thought for a moment. ‘Oh, him. No, certainly not. Besides, that was more than three months ago’ She scowled. ‘It’s nothing like that,’ she said. ‘Or at least, I don’t think so.’
‘It’s that client, presumably,’ Benny put in. ‘Hollingshead and Farren; the son, wasn’t it?’
Connie darted him an exasperated glance. ‘You never told me anything about’
‘No,’ Benny said, and grinned.
‘More to the point,’ Connie added, turning her glare on Cassie, ‘you never told me. How am I supposed to spread salacious gossip throughout the industry if people can’t be bothered to keep me up to date?’
‘It’s no big deal,’ Cassie protested. ‘Look, I don’t even know where to start. There’s this bloke - Colin Hollingshead.’
‘Got that,’ Connie said. ‘And?’
‘And,’ Cassie replied. ‘And what? I don’t know, that’s the really stupid thing. I don’t fancy him even one tiny bit, I’m quite definitely not in love with him. But’ She thought for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I don’t love him, but I’m getting all these symptoms’
‘We’d noticed,’ Benny said. ‘Ouch,’ he added. Cassie remembered that Connie was wearing extremely pointy-toed shoes today. She winced a little in sympathy.
‘Describe,’ Connie said.
‘What, the symptoms? All right.’ Taking a deep breath, Cassie recited the whole miserable catalogue, starting with listlessness and inability to concentrate, and working right through to the dreaded phone call, which of course Benny already knew about.
‘Yup,’ Benny said when she’d finished. ‘Those are without doubt the second-stage warning signs of a massive, industrial-strength crush. Witness asserts, however, that no such crush is in progress. Which assertion,’ he added quickly, before Cassie could say anything, ‘the Court is prepared to accept unreservedly. The question is, though: if it’s not that, what the hell is it?’
Cassie leaned forward a little. ‘Connie?’
‘Well’ Connie hesitated and looked away; both uncharacteristic procedures, for her. ‘Cassie, dear, would you mind if I ask you some very weird questions?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Fine.’ Connie lifted her head, and there was something worrying about her expression. No gleam in the eye, for one thing. ‘Probability wells. Consequence mines.’
‘Oh,’ Cassie said. ‘Them. What about them?’
‘Really,’ Benny put in, ‘it’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’ve all blundered into one in our time.’
Cassie scowled. ‘One, yes,’ she said. ‘Five’
‘It was just bad luck, that’s all.’
‘Of each’
‘Extremely bad luck,’ Benny said firmly. ‘Honestly, there’s times when I don’t understand people in this business. Leaving bloody dangerous things like probability wells and consequence mines littered about the place where anybody can just stumble into them’
‘But that’s the point,’ Connie interrupted quietly. ‘We don’t. They’re highly specialised, strictly controlled’
‘In theory,’ Benny scoffed. ‘But I could go into any pub between here and Blackfriars, and I bet you I could have my choice of prob wells and still have change out of a grand.’
‘Strictly controlled magical weapons,’ Connie said firmly. ‘Now, naturally, you don’t go advertising the fact you’ve laid one, that’d defeat the object of the exercise. But neither do you lose them, or carelessly leave them lying about in the street. But you,’ she went on, looking Cassie in the eye, ‘in the six months you’ve been with JWW, you’ve contrived to get yourself stuck i
n ten of the revolting things.’ She pulled a face. ‘And don’t tell me I’m exaggerating, because each time you stick your foot in one, it’s me you call, and I’m the one who has to come and unstick you. Not that I’m moaning or anything, I’m just reminding you of the facts. Has it occurred to you that, just possibly, somebody out there doesn’t like you very much?’
Cassie nodded slowly. ‘It’s occurred to me, yes,’ she said. ‘And really and truly, I can’t think of a single person who’d go to all the hassle of trying to catch me in one of those things.’
Connie sighed. ‘Me neither,’ she said. ‘And if there was a feud or a turf war going on with any of the other firms, I’m sure I’d have heard about it by now. And each time I’ve come along to unstick you’
‘Look, I’m really sorry about that’ Cassie began.
Connie smiled. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘really. And I’m sorry you had to wait so long the last time, only Cas Suslowicz’ She frowned. ‘What I’m trying to say,’ she went on, ‘is that it can’t be a coincidence but, equally, it can’t be deliberate. And I’m pretty sure you haven’t been setting the things yourself and deliberately walking into them out of a perverted sense of fun; so where does that leave us?’
Cassie shrugged. ‘Haven’t a clue,’ she said.
‘Exactly. It’s my fault,’ Connie went on. ‘Really, I should’ve given it some thought a long time go. I mean to say, ten’
‘Yes, all right,’ Cassie snapped. ‘What you mean is, if only I’d learn to look where I’m going …’
‘No, that’s not what I mean at all. Look, when Ricky Wurmtoter - before your time, dear - when he was just starting in the business, he got hit by seven consecutive Groundhog Day loops on seven consecutive days; and he was in Pest Control, for pity’s sake, he was supposed to be an expert. So really, it can happen to anybody.’
‘True,’ Benny put in. ‘Or what about Kurt Lundqvist and the Sheldrake anomaly? Laugh? I nearly’
‘The point is,’ Connie went on, ignoring him, ‘somebody’s been laying booby traps for you - expensive, and difficult to get hold of.’ (Benny grunted, but said nothing.) ‘But you say, and I believe you, that there’s nobody in the trade who’s got it in for you enough to go to that much trouble. Right?’
Cassie nodded. ‘I honestly can’t think of anybody,’ she said.
‘All right. Likewise,’ Connie continued, ‘you’re showing all the symptoms of a really colossal crush on this bloke that you’re adamant you don’t fancy in the least. Sounds to me,’ she said, ‘like all this stuff isn’t meant for you, but for somebody else.’
‘Ah,’ Benny said. ‘Mistaken identity.’
‘But that doesn’t work,’ Cassie interrupted. ‘Yes, it’d account for the booby traps, I suppose. But not the, um, other thing.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Benny said. ‘If someone’s playing dirty tricks on you, thinking you’re somebody else. I mean, a love potion’s about as dirty a trick as you can get.’
‘Benny, you’re drivelling,’ Connie said affectionately. ‘If someone had spiked her tea with a love potion, regardless of motive, she’d be in love. The whole point is, she isn’t. Got all the symptoms, but not the actual disease. That’s the funny part of it.’
‘All right,’ Benny said, ‘suppose it’s someone who doesn’t know what he’s doing. He tried to slip Cassie the love philtre, but he got it wrong - put sugar in it or something - and it’s not working properly. Sugar’ll do it every time, actually,’ he added. ‘I owe several lucky escapes to the fact that I have two sugars in my coffee.’
‘But then it doesn’t work at all,’ Connie pointed out. ‘Besides,’ she went on, ‘I really don’t think it’s that, because that’d still mean there’s some moustache-twirling villain out there, and we’re pretty sure that’s not the case. And also there’s the’
‘The what?’
But Connie shook her head. ‘Ignore me,’ she said, ‘red herring. No, there’s something a bit funny going on here, but there’s more to it than simple malice. And colour me paranoid if you want to, but I think it’s a bit suspicious that all this should be going on just now, with the takeover and everything. Bear in mind that Cassie’s the most recent recruit to the firm; maybe that’s got something to do with it.’
‘Actually, you’re wrong there. What about’ Cassie paused. “Sod it, I can’t remember her name. You know, the palefaced girl in Entertainments, came to us from UMG. She joined the month after I did.’
‘True,’ Benny said. ‘What is she called, by the way? I can never remember.’
‘No,’ Connie said thoughtfully, ‘neither can I. You know,’ she went on, ‘this is one of those problems where the more you think about it, the harder it gets. Still,’ she said firmly, ‘there’s bound to be a nice, straightforward explanation. Answer’s probably staring us in the face, like relativity or Fermat’s last theorem.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I think I’ll go home now,’ she said. ‘I need to rinse out some tights and clean the kitchen floor.’
‘Oh, fine,’ Cassie snapped petulantly. ‘You’re going to waltz off and leave me worrying myself to death in case there’s someone out there trying to screw me over with probability wells and love philtres. Thank you ever so bloody much.’
Connie smiled. ‘Cassie dear,’ she said, ‘there’s something about the profession you really ought to know. We’ve got all these horribly dangerous toys we love to play with, but really and truly they’re no big deal. At least; yes, they’re horrible and scary und they can do unspeakable things to you’
‘Specially Sheldrake anomalies,’ Benny pointed out. ‘And continuum twisters, and 5-D snakes and ladders, and dragons’ teeth and ’
‘But compared,’ Connie went on blithely, ‘with all the really vicious stuff you’re apt to find in everyday life, such as love and marriage and families and personal finance, they’re really no bother to anybody. The most a Barrington Fly-trap can do to you is rip your body into atoms and freeze your consciousness forever at the exact moment of death. If you really want something to lose sleep over, imagine living with a couple of teenage daughters. Which is why,’ she added, standing up, ‘I never got married. I may be exceptionally brave, but I’m not stupid.’
She left. Benny still had an inch of his drink left. Cassie stayed where she was.
‘The thing with Connie is,’ Benny said after a medium-length silence, ‘she’s absolutely brilliant at what she does. If they’d made her a partner like they should’ve back in the 1970s the firm wouldn’t have got into the mess it’s in now. But sometimes she has trouble remembering we aren’t all as Sherman-tanklike as she is.’ He sighed. ‘She can walk through walls without even breaking a fingernail. The rest of us have to use the door.’
Cassie smiled. ‘I’d sort of worked that out for myself,’ she said. ‘And you know, I think she’s right. I don’t think it’s a wizards’ feud or a magical war or anything like that; or else I’d be on a plane to Nova Scotia right now, and the hell with the lot of you. Actually, I don’t think it’s really anything - well, anything to do with work, if you follow me. It’s just, somehow it’s got mixed up with the work side of my life, and it’s easier to spot in that context, because it makes a more obvious mess. Does that make any kind of sense to you?’
Benny finished his drink. ‘Cassie,’ he said, ‘I’ve been working for JWW ever since I left the mines of my ancestors. Nothing whatsoever makes any sense to me any more. I find that strangely comforting. Cheerio.’
Cassie went home. Uneventful journey; seven messages on the answering machine when she got in, all of them from her mother. She made herself cheese on toast and tried to get to grips with the Hollingshead file. In the silence of her lonely room, by the pale orange glow of the electric fire, it was all perfectly straightforward: a mundane, everyday little sale-and-purchase, the sort of thing that she could explain with her eyes shut and a kipper in each ear. Which dragged her back, reluctantly, to context. And she didn’t
want to think about that any more, thanks all the same.
Instead, she reflected for a moment on the complete and utter bog she’d made of her assessment interview. She thought it over; so what? If they wanted to sack her, they could do that any time they liked. As for squandered opportunities to impress and sneak a toe onto the fast track to promotion; she found it perfectly easy not to get the least bit worked up about that. Screw the lot of them, she thought happily.
To drown out the noise of her own thoughts, Cassie switched on the telly. That was a good move on her part, since it reminded her that although her life was in many respects sad and dreary it wasn’t such a hopeless mess that she wanted to escape from it for an hour by watching an Australian soap opera. With a faint smile, she picked up the remote, drew a bead on one of the actors on the screen like Kirk aiming his phaser, and thumbed the off-button.
No result. Frowning, she tried again, but the intolerably young, bronzed, angst-riddled Strines were still there. She tried standby and mute, but they weren’t working either. Batteries, she growled lo herself; she got up, crossed to the table on which the set rested, and jabbed at the off switch with her left index finger.
This time, something did happen. She cracked a nail. The loathsome Aussies didn’t seem to care (fair enough; they had troubles enough of their own). So, Cassie thought: batteries flat und switch jammed. Not worth having it fixed; have to get a new one. Expense, ruin, aggravation. She reached round the back and turned the power off at the mains.
Still nothing. The beautiful golden young people on the screen gabbled on. The hell with this, Cassie thought, and she pulled the plug out of the wall.
Oh, she thought.
The young woman was called Holly, apparently, and the young man’s name was Ross. As if that wasn’t bad enough, they were talking about a pair of mutual friends of theirs, Chelsea and Josh. According to Ross, Josh was having trouble expressing his true feelings, while Chelsea still couldn’t make up her mind whether she loved Josh or Zack, although since Zack was now seeing Pixie, who’d broken up with Vince