by Tom Holt
Colin smiled thinly. ‘I think it’s rather nice to have a life to be scarred for, actually. Do you think there’s any chance that I might be allowed to keep it?’
The short man breathed in deeply. He had the air of someone who’s just agreed to take on another tiresome chore he could well do without organising the Christmas party, being secretary of the Esperanto Club, looking after someone’s dog while they’re abroad for a fortnight. He gave the impression that he didn’t exactly welcome that sort of thing, but he was used to it.
‘No promises,’ he said, ‘but I’ll see what I can do.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It should only have taken Benny Shumway three minutes to get from his office to the small interview room, even if it happened to be a Wednesday, when the boardroom was in the habit of rotating through ninety degrees, thereby blocking the corridor and making it necessary to take the long way round, through the laser-printer room and down the back stairs. As it was, Colin’s Dad had been waiting for a quarter of an hour when the interview-room door opened and Benny strolled in. He was holding a dog-eared manila envelope with a long number written on it.
‘Sorry to keep you hanging about,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I got held up on the way here - we’ve got the auditors in and they wanted some old files. Also,’ he added with a frown, ‘a set of encyclopaedias and a dartboard. My name’s Benny Shumway, by the way, and you must be Colin Hollingshead.’
‘That’s me,’ Hollingshead senior grunted. ‘Where’s the Clay woman, then?’
‘Oh, she’s a bit tied up at the moment,’ Benny said, sitting down and tossing the envelope onto the desk, ‘so I thought I’d drop by and keep you entertained till she’s available. No charge,’ he added, ‘just a free service we offer to all our old and valued clients.’
Hollingshead senior scowled at him. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind waiting till she’s ready to see me.’
Benny waved a hand. ‘It’s no bother,’ he said. ‘It so happens there’s a couple of things I wanted to ask you, saves me the cost of a phone call. What’s in the bag, by the way?’
On the floor beside Hollingshead senior was a plastic Tesco’s bag; he tried to hide it by shifting his leg a little, but obviously it was too late. ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said.
‘Nothing? Looks like a pretty chunky nothing to me.’
‘Apples,’ Mr Hollingshead muttered. ‘Promised my wife I’d pick some up while I was out. All right?’
‘Absolutely,’ Benny said, with a pleasant smile. ‘I love apples, me. I always say you can’t beat a good Cox’s, though I’m quite partial to these new Braemars you see everywhere. New Zealand or some place, I gather they’re from. Is that what you’ve got?’
‘No idea,’ grumbled Mr Hollingshead. ‘It just said “apples” on the bay at the supermarket.’
Benny shrugged. ‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘Anyhow, to the matter in hand. I take it you want to see young Cassie about the contract.’
Mr Hollingshead’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know about that.’
‘Here at JWW we’re very much team players,’ Benny said brightly. ‘We don’t go in for all that old-fashioned this-is-my-file-keep-your-filthy-paws-off nonsense. No, we all muck in, offering new viewpoints and perspectives according to how the Venn diagrams of our areas of expertise intersect each other. So yes, I know a bit about your case.’
‘A bit?’
‘Enough.’
‘Enough for what?’
Benny smiled. ‘Enough to realise that someone’s made a complete bog of something, somewhere. I mean,’ he went on, ‘otherwise I’d have to believe that you deliberately sold your only son to the Devil to keep your poxy little factory going. And you wouldn’t do that, ‘ Benny added sweetly, ‘would you? ‘
Mr Hollingshead was breathing heavily through his nose, making a sound like a sawmill in wet weather. ‘What’s it to you, one way or the other?’ he said, shifting in his seat. ‘You people are just here to do the paperwork, not stick your noses in.’
‘Absolutely,’ Benny said. ‘After all, your company -Hollingshead and Farren, isn’t it? - you’re long-established clients of the firm, excellent customers, the last thing we’d ever want to do is piss you off so that you’d take your business elsewhere.’ He reached across the desk and picked up the buff envelope he’d brought with him. ‘I did my homework, you see: took the liberty of looking out some of the old files on stuff we’ve done for you in the past. Seems like Hollingshead and Farren have been clients of ours for well over a century; almost as long as both firms have been in business, in fact. Does your son know that, by the way? Not that it matters particularly.’
‘Colin’s not really interested in company history,’ Mr Hollingshead replied. ‘Which is a bit of a disappointment to me, of course, but there you go.’
‘Ah.’ Benny nodded as he opened the envelope. ‘So presumably he doesn’t know about the first job we did for your company, way back in - let’s see, good heavens, 1839. That’s, what, a hundred and sixty-two years’
‘Hundred and sixty-seven, actually,’ Mr Hollingshead grunted.
‘Is it? Yes, you’re right. Well done. Usually I’m pretty good at mental arithmetic, but today’s just not been my day as far as maths is concerned. Anyhow,’ he went on, ‘it’s been a long and fruitful association, by any standards. You’ve got a whole shelf to yourselves in the closed-file store, which means I haven’t had time to go back through all the work we’ve done for you, not by a long shot. So I started at the beginning.’ He reached into the envelope and pulled out a folded sheaf of yellow paper. ‘Here it is,’ he said, ‘that first bit of business you ever put our way. Fascinating stuff.’
‘Is it?’
‘Oh yes, ‘ Benny said, with a brisk nod. ‘Of course, you’ll know all about it. ‘
‘Can’t say as I do.’
‘Really? Good heavens. Well, in that case, I’ll fill you in on the details. After all, I’m sure you’re interested in company history, even if your son isn’t.’
Mr Hollingshead yawned ostentatiously. ‘Is Ms Clay going to be very long? I could come back.’
‘She’ll be here any minute, I’m sure. Now then.’ Benny smiled and unfolded a piece of paper. ‘Actually, it’s amazing how little Jack Wells’s handwriting has changed over the years. Here we are. If you want to know what a file’s about, start with the copy of the invoice. Let’s see: To Alexander Farren, Esq., alchemist, Mortlake, Surrey! Benny raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s a funny word to use, isn’t it? I guess back then it just meant someone who did scientific research, what you’d call R&D these days.’
‘Fascinating,’ Mr Hollingshead said. ‘Look, can’t you ring the bloody woman and ask her how much longer?’
Benny frowned. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we haven’t got to the good bit yet. Ah yes, here we go. To the procurement and supply of one pip from an apple from the Tree of Life: twelve pounds, eighteen shillings and fourpence. And then there’s a stamp, and someone’s written Paid and the date.’ He paused. ‘Now, I’m assuming that Alexander Farren was your great-great-great-grandfather’s business partner, yes?’
Hollingshead senior nodded. ‘What about it?’
Benny smiled. ‘An apple from the Tree of Life,’ he said. ‘Now there’s an intriguing concept to play about with. I’m guessing here, but would that be the tree in the Bible, the one that gives you knowledge of good and evil? Or am I getting muddled up?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ Mr Hollingshead grunted. ‘I’m an atheist.’
‘Really? Don’t let your mate Oscar catch you saying that. But I’m pretty sure it’s not that one. Barking up the wrong tree, you could say. Humour,’ he added, with a singularly grim expression. ‘No, I think what Jack Wells was on about was the tree whose fruit made you immortal. For one thing, that’d tie in nicely with the word alchemist, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Maybe.’ Benny shrugged. ‘But I had a look at the file index before I came up here, and all those c
losed files, a hundred and sixty years’ worth - you know what? All those jobs we did for you, they’re all to do with trees. Funny old subject to consult a firm of sorcerers about, I’d have thought you’d have been better off asking Charlie Dimmock, or Gardeners’ Question Time. For example,’ he went on, taking a file card from his top pocket, ‘in 1902 your grandad came to see us about pruning lateral shoots, and in 1921, there was an enquiry about how to deal with apple sawfly; and then there was 1927, nasty scare about what looked like honey fungus, but it all turned out all right in the end, so that’s OK. Still, it all seems a lot of trouble to go to, unless it’s a pretty special tree. Don’t you think?’
Mr Hollingshead gave Benny a stare that should’ve peeled all the skin off his face. ‘I’ve got no idea what you’re on about,’ he said.
‘Really?’ Benny looked surprised. ‘Because according to the file index, you came to see Humph Wells about bark scab in 1987, and then you were back in ‘92 asking Cas Suslowicz about a high-tensile titanium trellis, and then again in ‘96’
Mr Hollingshead raised his hands and clapped them together slowly three or four times. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I give in. What a clever little bastard you are, Mr’
‘Shumway,’ Benny replied cheerfully. ‘So let’s see if I’ve got this straight. Mostly I’m speculating, because like I said, I haven’t had a chance to read the files properly, but this is how I think it went. After your great-however-many-times-grandad stole the apple pip from his partner, Mr Farren’
‘It wasn’t stealing. He had a good claim in law, but that bastard was determined to cheat us out of what was rightfully ours.’
Benny raised a hand. ‘If you say so. After all this time it doesn’t really matter, does it? Anyway, once he’d got hold of it, he had to hide it somewhere so Farren wouldn’t be able to find it. So he thought he’d be clever and hide it under the floorboards at home. Unfortunately - ‘ Here Benny failed miserably to suppress a smirk. ‘Unfortunately, it grew, with the result that your ancestor found himself with a bloody great big tree growing up through the middle of his house. He couldn’t transplant it or it’d die - at least, that was what Jack Wells told him in February 1852 - so he had to put up with it; he pruned off all the lower branches to encourage it to grow, and by the time you were born it’d made its way up into the loft anyhow, so there wasn’t anything to see apart from just the trunk. Is that right?’
Mr Hollingshead nodded.
‘By that point, of course,’ Benny went on, ‘it was all getting to be a bit of a drag; because you all knew, thanks to Humph Wells’s letter of 15 April 1977, that it’d be another twenty-five years at the very least before you could expect to see any fruit; possibly longer, there’s no way of knowing with magic or supernatural fruits. And until you could be sure that there was an apple on the way, your great-great-great-grandad’s incredibly cunning plan to make a pact with the Devil and then cheat his way out of it would have to stay on the back burner. But you’re a patient bloke, so you bided your time and got on with keeping the company going until - let’s see, three or four months ago -you were up in the loft pruning the tree when you saw what you’d been waiting for all this time. Apple blossom. Meaning that finally an apple was on its way and you’d be in business.’
Benny paused, looking for a reaction. But Mr Hollingshead just sat there, arms folded across his chest. Benny sighed, and went on: ‘Nice plan, though. Clever. You arrange a deal with the Very Bad People; basically, they save the company and make it a tremendous success in return for the soul of your first-born son. Now it goes without saying, you never had any intention of going through with that. After all,’ he added quietly, ‘all you and your predecessors ever cared about was the family business, and it wouldn’t be any good to you if the family died out, on account of young Colin accidentally breaching the contract and getting carried off to Hell before his time. No, the way to make sure the company goes on for ever is to line up this deal with the Bad People, and then see to it that Colin lives for ever and ever. Beautifully simple. Doesn’t matter if he forfeits the contracts; he can’t give up his soul unless he dies, and if he’s immortal that can’t happen. Therefore the future of Hollingshead and Farren is guaranteed, until the sun goes cold and the planet crumbles into dust, and quite possibly after that if you land a decent contract for bathroom fittings with aliens from Proxima Centauri. Of course,’ Benny added gently, ‘it wouldn’t do to let Colin in on the secret, just in case he might not want to live for ever and ever, making small brass widgets on a barren rock in space while the interstellar wind whistles round his ears. I have an idea that not many people would. But, of course, his feelings don’t really come into it, do they?’
Mr Hollingshead looked at Benny for a long time. ‘No,’ he said.
Benny nodded. ‘Thought not,’ he said. ‘Anyway, that’s more or less it, I guess. You’ve just had an uncomfortable few weeks waiting for the fruit to ripen you were a bit concerned in case the deal went wrong and the contract got forfeited before the apple was ready to eat. But at last - I’m guessing late yesterday afternoon, judging by how frantic you were that Colin didn’t come home last night - the apple was finally ripe, and all you’ve got to do now is get him to eat it, and there you are: job done, after a hundred and sixty-five years of careful, patient planning.’
Mr Hollingshead shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I told you. A hundred and sixty-seven.’
‘Of course.’ Benny dipped his head to acknowledge the error.
‘Anyway.’ Mr Hollingshead stood up. ‘Obviously you’re very clever, figuring it out all by yourself, and you can give yourself a great big pat on the back. But you know what? It’s none of your damn business.’
Benny smiled. ‘True,’ he said.
That didn’t seem to appease Mr Hollingshead particularly. He took a long stride and stood over Benny, looking down at him. ‘How I choose to run my company is up to me. I pay you people to help, not to go around snooping and making difficulties. If you want to take this up with your senior partner, fine. I expect you’ll be able to find another job somewhere else.’
Benny shrugged. ‘I’m quite happy where I am, thanks. And like you said, it’s nothing to do with me.’
‘Right.’
‘Besides,’ Benny went on, ‘there’s no harm done. I mean, defrauding the Devil - I suppose that counts as a good deed, really. You probably get a bonus mark for it. Who knows, maybe you’ll end up going to Heaven after all.’
Mr Hollingshead laughed. ‘Like I told you, I’m an atheist. I don’t plan on going anywhere, not in the foreseeable future, which is all I’m concerned about.’ He grinned, and sat down again. ‘So, now that you’ve solved the mystery what are you going to do about it?’
‘Me?’ Benny shook his head. ‘Nothing. I was just curious, that’s all. Intellectual curiosity. Sorry if I offended you at all, I didn’t mean to. I only started investigating when I realised something was a bit screwy somewhere; until I knew what was going on, I couldn’t tell whether it affected me personally, or the firm, whatever. Now I know I was right about what’s been happening, and that it’s none of my business, like you said. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, and now I’ll go away and get on with some work.’ He got up. ‘I’ll go and see what’s holding up young Cassie. It’s not like her to keep a client waiting.’
Mr Hollingshead yawned. ‘You do that,’ he said. ‘You know what they say, time is money.’
‘Quite,’ Benny said. He picked up the papers he’d left on the table, took a step towards the door. ‘One last thing, though.’
Mr Hollingshead had taken a magazine from his pocket; he opened it and started to read. ‘What?’
‘The apple.’ Benny reached inside his left sleeve and took out a short length of thick steel pipe. ‘Once it’s ripe, how long does it stay fresh for? You consulted Humph Wells about that back in ‘85, but I didn’t have time to look up what he told you.’
‘Forty-eight hours,’ Mr Hollingshead g
runted, his face buried in the magazine. ‘After that, it’s no good, doesn’t work. Why?’
‘Just interested, that’s all. Pleasant dreams, ‘ Benny added as he swung the pipe and bashed Mr Hollingshead on the top of his skull.
When all else fails, do the work they’re paying you to do. Cassie went to her filing cabinet, took out the Macziejewski file (a routine surreal-estate transaction involving the sale and purchase of a house in a small Scottish village that only exists for one day in every fifty years), sat down and started filling out a form.
The other thing about really boring work is its anaesthetic quality. While she was calculating the apportionment of fifty years’ worth of unpaid council tax between the buyer and the seller, her mind was occupied and therefore not open to disturbing stuff like love, whether true, false or chemically-induced. Unfortunately, the calculation was pretty straightforward, even taking into account the twenty-five per cent tax rebate on properties trapped in a spatio-temporal vortex, and as soon as she’d finished it the thoughts came trooping back, like kids home for the holidays, clamouring to be entertained.
Cassie knew perfectly well that what she felt wasn’t real; it was just a bad trip, unwanted stuff forced into her mind by whoever was responsible for giving her that bloody philtre. Furthermore, on one level she was just starting to get good and angry about being used as a component in somebody’s grand design. It was particularly unfair that whoever it was should have picked on her, since what she still tended to think of as the soppy love stuff simply wasn’t her scene at all.
When all the other girls in her class had been obsessed with eyeshadow, lip gloss and the complex tactical exercises involved in attracting or disposing of boyfriends, she’d watched them with sheer bewilderment and wondered if she really belonged to the same species. Boys simply didn’t interest her, for one very obvious reason. They couldn’t do magic; they didn’t even realise it existed. As far as she was concerned, she had nothing in common with them whatsoever. She’d always known who she was and what she was going to do; Daddy had told her when she was six, and from then on it was just a matter of being patient until she’d grown up and learned what she had to know. Twenty years later, here she was; she’d made it, succeeded, passed the exams and won through to the only prize that mattered, a good job with one of the top firms. Indeed; here she was, sitting at her desk doing apportionments and ticking boxes on forms. Victory.