You Don't Have To Be Evil To Work Here, But It Helps

by Tom Holt

  ‘That’s all right, then. And I don’t want to know how you did that, because - ‘

  ‘Very sensible. You’re learning, I can see that. Tea?’

  Colin shuddered slightly. ‘No, thanks,’ he said, ‘I just had some. What was all that about everything being crystal clear?’

  Connie smiled faintly. ‘I was exaggerating,’ she said. ‘A bit, anyway. It was an advert, after all, you’re supposed to exaggerate slightly. So, what did you want to see me about?’

  ‘Hang on,’ Colin said. ‘Why all the secrecy, anyway? Why Couldn’t you just come down to reception and collect me, instead of - ‘

  ‘Discretion,’ Connie said. ‘The fewer people who know you’re here, the better. Assuming my theory’s correct, but we’ll come on to that in a moment. What can I do for you?’

  Colin sighed. ‘It’s like this,’ he said.

  It’s basic elementary psychology that men like women to be sympathetic listeners. They like to see the compassionate frown, hear the little murmurs of vicarious distress as they talk about how they’ve suffered. You poor thing, they want to be told, how awful for you. If, instead, they get broad grins, chuckles and merry laughter, they’re inclined to get upset, and sulk.

  ‘I don’t see what’s so funny about that,’ Colin said, after he’d finished the sad story of how he’d lost the only girl, give or take, he’d ever loved.

  ‘Sorry,’ Connie said, smiling broadly. ‘I’m not laughing at you; it’s just that you’ve proved my theory, and I think I know what’s been going on.’

  ‘Oh,’ Colin said. That was good news, of course, but he’d still have preferred a little decorum. ‘Well, are you going to tell me, or not?’

  It was the contract (Connie explained). That should’ve put me on the right track straight away, if my brains weren’t totally addled by age and vicious living. It’s a paradox, you see; the sort of thing we used to get set in exams at magic school. I used to hate that stuff, actually, because I always thought, that’s so improbable, I’m never going to come across something like that in practice. Shows how wrong you can be.

  Yes, all right, I’m getting there. Shut up and listen, and I’ll tell you a story.

  Once upon a time there’s a boy, and he meets a girl. They like each other, and they fall in love. Usually, falling in love is a bit like those quizzes you get on phone-in shows: answer three simple questions and you win a digital radio. Well, the questions are dead simple and you know the right answers, so you phone up and leave your message on their answering machine, and that’s the last you ever hear about it. Because the answers are so simple, loads of people ring in, and they just choose one at random to get the prize. Same with love. It’s not exactly rocket science, falling in love. Any bloody fool can do it, but only something like one per cent of one per cent qualifies as true love and wins the prize.

  But let’s assume that this boy and this girl are that one per cent of one per cent. Fine. Now, as I think we explained to you before, true love is an integral part of the operational matrix of reality as we know it; makes the world go round, and so on. In consequence, if something comes along and bungs a spanner in the works, things go badly wrong. Reality starts getting bent out of shape. Imagine it as the proverbial stone chucked in a pond. The closer you are to where the stone landed, the closer together the ripples are, but they spread out and keep on going. The difference between the stone analogy and buggered-up true love is what happens when the ripples stop spreading out and start coming back in. Now that’s scary, especially if you’re in the middle.

  Anyway. Something goes wrong. It could be something really silly and trivial - like, for example, an attack of pins and needles in a tea shop. But the effect is that true love gets star-crossed, and the universe is suddenly minutes away from crashing. The powers that be have to act. Luckily, they can take a broader view than the rest of us, since they can be a bit more creative with stuff like time and space. They can jump forward a generation, reincarnate the star-crossed lovers, pair them off and there you are - problem solved.

  This is what should have happened in this case, but it didn’t. Instead, the reincarnations went the wrong way. Instead of going forward in time, they went back.

  No, I’m not talking drivel; listen. As a result of the screw-up, history got rewritten. People in the past who’d led perfectly ordinary, placid lives and married nice quiet girls, and sensible, steady young men with prospects all suddenly found themselves caught up in heartbreak, grand passion and melodrama, resulting in yet more star-crossedness and further potentially disastrous chaos. Put it another way: instead of there being just one set of crossed stars in the early twenty-first century, there’s now a whole galaxy of the bloody things stretching back as far as the fifteenth century, maybe even further, threatening to unzip the fabric of the Einsteinian universe and reduce the whole concept of linear time to sawdust and iron filings.

  With me so far? Splendid.

  The obvious question is: what the hell is going on? Why can’t the star-crossed lovers in the twenty-first century reincarnate in the future and allow the whole pig’s ear to resolve itself peacefully in a civilised manner?

  Well, now that I know the answer, it’s howlingly obvious. If one of the lovers isn’t available for reincarnation - because his soul’s dropped out of the system, so to speak; disintegrated, or gone somewhere and can’t come back - the whole process grinds to a halt and starts backing up, like a blocked toilet. Hence, you see, the relevance of the contract.

  Think about it for a second. Suppose the boy in our scenario is you. You’re destined to meet the girl of your dreams and fall in love; and it’s OK, you live a blameless life, no real danger of you doing anything really bad and getting eternally damned and going to Hell; so, in the natural course of events, no danger of you dropping out of the loop. You’re a safe candidate for true love, because in the unlikely event of a screw-up, the authorities can reincarnate you and get a second bite at the cherry. But - and here, I guess, is where I have to apologise on behalf of my entire profession - suppose some interfering tit comes along and replaces the natural course of events with a supernatural one; for the sake of argument, a contract where you sell your soul to the Devil. In that case —

  ‘You?’ Cassie repeated.

  ‘Of course.’ The thin-faced girl smiled thinly. ‘I bought the firm when it got into financial difficulties, and I’ve been running it ever since. ‘

  ‘Oh, ‘ Cassie said. ‘Well, that’s - ‘

  ‘Purely and simply,’ the thin-faced girl went on, ‘so that I could control you. You’re rather important, you see; or, at least, we assumed you were, although it appears we may well have been mistaken. However, that’s neither here nor there. Now, I’d like to introduce you to someone. His name,’ she added with a frown, ‘is Oscar.’

  ‘Oscar.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like in Wilde, or Hammerstein?’

  ‘Sort of.’ The thin-faced girl pursed her lips. ‘You may prefer to shut your eyes at this point. Oscar does take a bit of getting used to, although I should point out that you’ve been in contact with him, professionally speaking, for some time.’

  ‘Professionally — ‘ Cassie’s mind leapt, impala-like, to the conclusion indicated. ‘Oh,’ she said.

  ‘Quite. Like I said, he takes a bit of getting used to, but isn’t it a basic tenet of enlightened twenty-first-century liberal democracy that you really shouldn’t judge by appearances? Ah,’ she added, as a crack appeared in the office wall. ‘Talk of the—’

  Through the crack, a claw squeezed, like toothpaste from a tube. The claw was followed by an arm, the arm by a torso and (broadly speaking) a head.

  ‘Humour,’ it said. ‘Good morning, Ms Clay. A pleasure to put a face to the voice, after so long.’

  The pleasure wasn’t mutual. Cassie managed not to scream, but only because she’d always been so contemptuous of old-fashioned sci-fi heroines who howled the place down after one glimpse of an out-of-work ac
tor in a canvas monster suit. Instead, she let her jaw flop, and tried to wriggle backwards through her chair.

  ‘Excellent,’ the thin-faced girl said, as Oscar’s remaining components squeezed through the crack. ‘The gang’s all here. Now, I should point out that although in theory Oscar and I are on opposite sides in the perpetual war between Good and Evil, in practice our interests in this matter coincide pretty well exactly. Cosmic chaos and disorder are a pain in the bum regardless of which branch of the Service you happen to belong to. So—’

  ‘Hold on,’ Cassie interrupted; because even the flood of panic and horror sloshing through her brain at the sight of the new arrival wasn’t enough to drown out the implications of that. ‘So if you two are opposite sides of the same coin and he’s the Devil—’

  The thin-faced girl frowned. ‘Oops,’ she said sourly. ‘That’s actually restricted information, so please keep it to yourself. And no, that doesn’t constitute an admission of identity on my part. Entirely off the record: yes, all my sisters and me can do an entirely adequate paso doble on the head of your average industry-standard pin. That, however, doesn’t entitle you to take liberties with your duty of confidentiality, as set out in paragraph 6 (b) of your written terms of employment. Do I make myself clear?’

  Cassie nodded. Although the concept of an angel being an employer, or vice versa, was so bizarre as to be incomprehensible, it would at least explain a great deal about how the universe worked.

  ‘Oscar,’ said the thin-faced girl, ‘has an offer to put to you. I don’t suppose it’s going to influence your decision one way or the other, but you might as well know that if you accept it, you’ll be doing me, and the organisation I represent, a big favour. Won’t do you any good, mind, but— Sorry, I’m not helping, am I? Oscar, say something, before I cause a diplomatic incident.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ Oscar replied. ‘Ms Clay.’ It cleared its throat. ‘You are of course aware that Mr Hollingshead junior is bound by a contract with my associates. You know the terms of that contract.’

  Cassie nodded.

  ‘Furthermore,’ Oscar went on, ‘due to circumstances which I concede were entirely beyond your control, you are presently in love with Mr Hollingshead. Am I correct?’

  ‘Mm. ‘

  ‘In that case - ‘ Was there a tiny glint of sympathy in its small perfectly round red eyes? ‘In that case,’ Oscar went on, ‘I am authorised to make the following offer. If you want to save the soul of the man you love, this can be done. All you have to do is agree to take his place. That is, as and when the forfeiture clause of the contract comes into effect, you rather than he will become the guest of my associates. Do you understand?’

  A bit like a dream, really. Cassie knew that her head had just bobbed up and down, a gesture signifying assent, but she wasn’t aware of having had anything to do with it.

  ‘So,’ Oscar said quietly. ‘Which is it to be? Yes or no?’

  It wasn’t unknown for Benny Shumway to grumble occasionally about his work at JWW, but he would always have been the first to admit that any job where you regularly get to bash people over the head can’t be all bad. True, he wasn’t entirely sure that the people he generally bashed were the people who truly needed bashing; the ratio of comparatively harmless vampires, werewolves, zombies and rogue ores to lawyers, local government inspectors and Members of Parliament was, in his view, not all it could have been. On this occasion, however, he was entirely satisfied. If ever a fellow human being cried out for a sharp tap on the skull with a bit of sawn-off scaffolding pipe, it was Colin Hollingshead senior.

  Benny put the pipe down, picked up something else off the floor, considered his handiwork and smiled. Just the right amount of wristwork and follow-through, like Brian Lara driving through the covers off the back foot. Fine; now, however, he faced the usual problem. Please Dispose Of Body Tidily.

  Mr Hollingshead was no featherweight, and Benny had his back to think of; so he grabbed him carefully by the ankles and dragged him out through the door, across the landing and - here Benny couldn’t help grinning mischievously - into the lavatory next to the stationery cupboard. Hollingshead senior would be safe in there - no, rephrase that. He’d be no bother to anybody in there.

  True, Benny reflected as he closed the door behind him, all manner of strange things had been known to happen to people in the second-floor lavatory, especially to those reckless enough to try and use it for its intended purpose. On the other hand, nobody had actually died or gone insane in there for ages; not for at least six years, unless you counted the poor fool who’d come to mend the shredder.

  That done, Benny trotted back to his office, closed the door, put something away in the top drawer of his desk and sat down. Not bad, he thought, a certain amount of progress has been made. Now, the question was—

  His door flew open, and he saw Mr Tanner standing in the doorway.

  ‘You busy?’ Mr Tanner asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tough. Come with me.’ Mr Tanner frowned and added, ‘Bring an axe.’

  Using axes was almost on a par with bashing heads as far as Benny was concerned, but there was a time and a place for everything. ‘Can’t it wait?’ he asked. ‘Only I’ve—’

  ‘No.’ It wasn’t often that Mr Tanner raised his voice or displayed any emotion more energetic than extreme contempt. ‘It can’t bloody wait. Have you got an axe, or haven’t you?’

  Benny shrugged. ‘Fine,’ he said. He stood up, crossed to his filing cabinet, opened the drawer marked ‘A’ and took out a long, straight-handled American-pattern broad-axe. ‘Are we being formal, or will this do?’

  ‘That’ll be fine,’ Mr Tanner replied impatiently. ‘Now come on.’

  Benny followed him onto the landing, up a flight of stairs, down a corridor and through two sets of fire doors to Humphrey Wells’s old office. ‘Oh,’ Benny said. ‘Them.’

  Mr Tanner nodded. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘The fucking auditors.’

  Benny hesitated. ‘All due respect,’ he said, ‘and I know what a pain they can be sometimes, but don’t you think killing them - ? ‘

  Mr Tanner clicked his tongue, and the sound was like a stockman’s whip cracking. ‘I don’t want you to kill them,’ he said. ‘I want you to smash in the door.’

  Smashing doors wasn’t quite up there with bashing heads, but it was better than doing the quarterly VAT returns or the petty-cash reconciliations. Even so, Benny asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve been knocking and shouting and God knows what for the last half-hour and they’re not answering,’ Mr Tanner said angrily. ‘They rang down to reception for last Thursday’s Investors’ Chronicle, seventeen pairs of ladies’ tights, a pipe wrench and a marmoset. I’m going to find out what’s going on in there if it bloody kills me.’

  Benny nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, and swung the axe.

  There’s a measure of science to busting open a door with an axe. Rather than hewing wildly at the panels, the sensible man goes for the area around the lock, the idea being to cut it out as neatly as circumstances allow. It took Benny seventeen carefully placed chops, but there was a lot more to JWW doors than mere planks, dowels and glue. When the last blow had gone home and the last splinter had flown wide, Benny leaned his axe against the wall, reached out and gave the door a gentle prod with his fingertip. It swung open.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Piece of cake.’

  Mr Tanner took a step forward, then paused. ‘After you,’ he said.

  Benny frowned. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘You’re not scared, are you?’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody scared. Go on, you’re the pest controller. Get in there.’

  Benny could see the logic in that; but logic will only get you so far. When, after all, was the last time you saw a Regius professor of philosophy driving a Maserati? ‘I think you ought to go in first,’ he said. ‘After all, you’re the ex-partner, not me. It’s bad enough having to go to the Bank every day, and—’

 
‘Please,’ Mr Tanner said.

  ‘Ah.’ Benny grinned. ‘Since you put it like that.’ He picked up the axe and slowly put his head round the door.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You’d better see for yourself.’

  The room was in a mess. The floor was carpeted with bits of paper, file covers, scraps of shredded cloth and pizza crusts. Empty bottles and styrofoam fast-food boxes covered the desk and the bookshelves. On the wall facing the door someone had drawn a large, poorly executed picture of a peacock, apparently using a fingertip dipped in curry sauce. The cashier’s-room calculator, which Benny had been looking for for days, had been cracked in two and thoroughly gutted, and the keypad numbers had been stuck to the arms of a chair with Blu-Tack in the shape of a smiley face. The phones had been ripped out of the wall, their casings cracked open like crab shells and stuffed with olive stones and pilau rice. The tights were still in their cardboard boxes, the pipe wrench lay beside the battered remains of the filing cabinet, and there was no visible trace of the marmoset. Or, for that matter, the auditors. There was also a very, very unusual smell.

  ‘Hang on,’ Benny said slowly. ‘So if there’s no window, and the door was locked from the inside—’

  Mr Tanner, who’d been staring like a lunatic, pulled himself together, with a shudder. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘I mean that,’ he added grimly. ‘Just wipe the whole thing from your mind and pretend it never happened. Understood?’

  Benny thought about that for three seconds. ‘It’s a bit odd, though. I mean, four accountants from Moss Berwick don’t just vanish into thin air like—’

  ‘Understood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fine.’ Mr Tanner held the wreck of the door open for Benny, then pulled it shut. ‘I’ll get Cas Suslowicz and Peter Melznic to drop by later,’ he said. ‘I seem to remember Peter telling me once about a spell he knows where you can seal off a room completely for ever, so nobody can ever find it again.’ He frowned.

  ‘He knows all sorts of cool stuff, that bloke,’ he said. ‘Pity he’s such a plonker.’