by Tom Holt
Benny followed Mr Tanner through the fire doors, along the corridor and down the stairs until he was back outside his office again. There Mr Tanner paused, as if he was struggling with something.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘My pleasure,’ Benny replied.
‘And if you could see your way about not mentioning this to ‘
‘No problem.’
Mr Tanner sighed. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘you spend your whole adult life in this business and you think you’ve seen it all, and then ‘ He shrugged, and lit a cigar. ‘I’ve got a good mind to retire come the new year,’ he said. ‘You know, relax, put my feet up, spend less time with the family. You ever thought about retiring?’
‘Only at night,’ Benny replied, ‘after eating too much strong cheese. Was there anything else?’ Mr Tanner shook his head. ‘Mind how you go,’ he said, and walked away.
‘In that case,’ Connie said, ‘you can see for yourself what’s likely to happen. You’re the true lover, right? Something goes wrong, you don’t get together with the girl. You die. You go to Hell. The little men with pitchforks do whatever it is that they do with the souls of the damned, and you can’t be reincarnated; therefore the screw-up can’t be corrected, the backed-up-toilet effect comes into play, and it’s only a matter of time before the immutable laws of spatio-temporal physics are just so many manifesto promises. In other words,’ Connie added, ‘a right mess. Bad,’ she added, ‘but not so bad that attempts to set it right by well-meaning officials can’t make it worse. Which,’ she added with a sigh, ‘is what I assume has been happening.’
Colin looked at her blankly. ‘Ah,’ he said.
‘That’s right. I’m thinking,’ Connie went on, ‘about the business of you and young Cassie getting dosed with the love philtre.’
‘Ah,’ Colin said again. ‘That.’
Cassie nodded. ‘That. Stands to reason, someone did it on purpose. Went to a certain degree of trouble: getting hold of the philtre, arranging things so you and she’d be together in one place at a specified time. Even,’ she added, with a grim undertone in her voice, ‘a bit of A-level-standard shape-shifting, to make it seem as if it was me who gave that ditz on reception the order to take up the tray of spiked tea and bickies. Why do all that unless the guilty party believed it’d somehow help matters?’
‘Why indeed?’ Colin muttered.
‘So.’ Connie shifted a little in her chair. ‘The logical assumption is that whoever the mystery tea-spiker was, he or she reckoned that if our Cassie fell in love with you, that’d be it, end of problem. But ‘ Connie shook her head and looked away for a moment. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it obviously hasn’t worked, has it? Because although you seem to have knocked back a large enough dose of that muck to poison an elephant, you aren’t actually in love with Cassie one little bit, are you?’
Colin shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Which is pretty remarkable in itself,’ Connie observed. ‘That stuff’s been on the market for nigh on two hundred years: one hundred per cent success rate, until now. It seems to me,’ Connie added with a thoughtful frown, ‘that someone who can just shrug off something that powerful could only do so if he was already under the influence of something even stronger. Like,’ she said with a slight shudder, ‘genuine true love. Implications,’ she added, pulling herself together. ‘One: young Cassie isn’t your destined soulmate. Two: someone else is. Well?’ she demanded briskly. ‘Yes or no?’
‘Yes,’ Colin replied, beetroot-faced and glowing like a nuclear meltdown. ‘I told you about her just now, remember? Fam ‘
‘Oh yes.’ Connie nodded. ‘That chubby girl on reception. Well,’ she said brightly, ‘there you have it. The question I’d like the answer to, though, is why our phantom tea-adulterator thought the girl you needed pairing off with was young Cassie. Any ideas?’
‘No.’
Connie sighed. ‘Me neither. And until we know that, I put it to you that we remain conclusively screwed. There’s got to be a reason,’ she said angrily. ‘And between you, me and the filing cabinet, I’m prepared to bet that it’s also the reason why the stupid bastards who’re running this outfit nowadays have given me the sack. And that,’ she growled, ‘is very much my business, even if the rest of it isn’t.’
Colin waited for four seconds just to be sure she’d finished, then said: ‘All right, so what do you think we should do about it?’
‘Ah.’ Connie clicked her tongue. ‘There you have me, I’m afraid. There’s an old saying in this business, of course: when all else fails, ask somebody. The question is, though: who do we ask? Answer,’ she went on before Colin could say anything, ‘the clown who put that stuff in your tea. Trouble is, we don’t know who it was. Although ‘
Colin leaned forward, but Connie wasn’t looking at him any more. Instead, she was staring very hard at a spot on the wall about three inches above his head. Colin looked round, but there was nothing to see except the painted-over scar where a picture-hook had once been.
‘What?’ he demanded.
‘Just occurred to me,’ Connie said. ‘Young Cassie used to be with Mortimers, right?’
‘If you say so.’
‘You don’t know what that means. Right. Mortimers are the best in the business; much better firm than us, more prestigious, better chances of getting ahead, and young Cassie’s pretty ambitious. But she quits Mortimers and comes here instead. I remember asking her why, and she told me it was because they offered her a ludicrously large sum of money; real offer-you-can’t-refuse sort of deal. Now, Cassie’s all right, but she’s nothing very special. Why would anybody do that unless they needed her here for some other reason?’
‘Me,’ Colin mumbled.
‘Exactly. Furthermore,’ Connie went on, ‘not so long ago, when JWW was bought out by the new people, I don’t mind telling you that we were in a right old state. I remember thinking when I heard the news. Only a complete idiot would spend good money buying us. I simply couldn’t see a reason. But there is one thing JWW has which no other firm in the trade can offer. You lot.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You. The Hollingshead family; you’ve been clients of the firm for generations. So, the hypothesis runs, our new mystery proprietors bought JWW simply in order to get access to you. You and Cassie. To get the two of you together in one place. In which case,’ Connie said, jumping to her feet, ‘I know exactly who we need to ask in order to get the answer to my question. Come on.’
Colin wanted to say something - quite a few things - but he didn’t get the chance. Connie had a firm grip on his ear, and was pulling him out of his chair towards the door.
‘Well?’ the thin-faced girl said.
It was a bit like trying to walk through an upended trampoline: the harder Cassie pushed toward an answer, the harder it seemed to push back. It was an impossible choice; because there was no way she’d ever make such a stupid, disastrous, idiotic gesture, not even if it was real love, instead of some horrible manipulative trick that’d come out of a bottle. It didn’t help that she’d never quite managed to believe in Hell, even though she’d spoken to it so many times on the phone; to give away your soul for all eternity to something you were convinced couldn’t possibly exist struck her as being pretty close to the ultimate humiliation. On the other hand
Cassie was trying to make some sense of what she’d just heard. Since she didn’t believe in it, she had no sense of what Hell could actually be. If she could draw, she could have sketched out a huge bonfire, vats of something resembling yellow porridge (what is brimstone, exactly?) and a crew of anatomically improbable Butlin’s redcoats with pitchforks cackling wildly and prodding people in the bum. But drawing a picture wouldn’t have made it any more real to her, because she knew, right down at the molecular level, that it couldn’t possibly be like that. For one thing, once you’d got used to it (and she could only think of it in terms of a rather too hot bath; it’s scalding when you climb in, but after a while
it fades into pleasantly warm, and then it’s cold and time to get out), it wouldn’t be horrible and terrifying and agonising, it’d just be very boring and silly. A bit like a bad day at the office, really. Maybe that was Hell, and Bosch and Bruegel had painted in all the bird-headed fiends simply because offices hadn’t been invented yet.
Or - try this one for size - maybe Hell was being made to do supremely stupid, humiliating things against your will just because someone had stuck love philtre in your tea. Perhaps it was being made to be in love with someone you’d only met a few times and didn’t really like very much. Maybe Hell was Connie losing her job and Colin being stuck in the family business with his horrible father and Cas Suslowicz and Dennis Tanner having to sit behind their desks watching some ignorant clown of an angel running their firm into the ground because she simply wasn’t interested in it. All those things were real enough; that’s why they call it real life. But real life is tolerable because, however implausible it may seem, there’s always a wispy, unrealistic flicker of hope to be clung on to - lottery win or tall, dark, handsome stranger or your immediate superior in the chain of command getting eaten by bears - and so long as there’s that little hole in the roof through which you can see the stars, being stuck in the cellar isn’t so bad. But suppose you knew, guaranteed for certain, that this was all there’d ever be: the job, home, your unsatisfactory family and disappointing friends, without even retirement to look forward to; without even death.
Benny Shumway didn’t talk about it as a rule, but he’d told Cassie about it once; about death, what it was like to go to the Bank every day and see it. One thing he’d said had always stuck in her mind: it’s nothing, for ever. She’d thought about that a lot, trying to figure out what he’d meant by it, and the explanation she’d come up with was scarier than anything Stephen King and Dean Koontz could’ve concocted, even after a gallon of strong black coffee and a tureenful of bad magic mushrooms. Nothing, as in nothing ever happens here. For ever, as in the sun goes cold, the planet freezes into lifeless rock, collides with an asteroid, smashes into gravel and dissipates into the empty vacuum of space, and you’re still there, as though nothing had happened; because, of course, as far as you were concerned, nothing had. So: if hell is worse than death, it’s got to be pure distilled essence of nothing for ever
‘Well?’ the thin-faced girl said.
On the other hand, there was love: fake, false, not real, as unreal as the brimstone porridge and the pitchforks. Cassie knew very well what it said on the label: JWW patent oxy-hydro-gen love philtre, guaranteed to last for ever, till the seas run dry and the sun goes cold; for ever, this lie, this total absence of feeling. This nothing.
Colin had asked her, isn’t there anything you can do? And that was just when he’d wanted to save his father from the consequences of his own lunatic stupidity. Is there anything you can do to stop it, put it right, make it go away? Such a question wouldn’t have bothered Cassie if the answer had been no, because there’s possible and there’s impossible, and she didn’t believe in miracles. She was even prepared to accept that it wasn’t her fault; because yes, she hadn’t read the draft contract through properly or she’d have figured out that it was Colin, not his Dad, who was in the frame; but no, because even though she’d been careless and unprofessional, she hadn’t started it or suggested it or come up with the idea in the first place. Guilt couldn’t make her do this supremely stupid thing, any more than love could. But he’d asked her, isn’t there anything she could do, and apparently she’d been wrong when she’d replied no, nothing.
Cassie frowned. Suddenly she realised that she didn’t approve of nothing, on principle. There was, after all, something she could do. It was a bloody stupid reason for doing a bloody stupid thing, but she’d go for something over nothing every time.
‘Ms Clay? Yes or no?’
Cassie sighed. Maybe it was like children’s parties when she was a kid; it won’t be so bad once you’re there.
She reached across the table, took hold of the sheaf of paper that the thin-faced girl had put down, and undipped her pen. ‘All right,’ she said.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Slightly breathless after sprinting up two flights of stairs, Connie knocked on the door and opened it, dragging Colin in behind her. Then she stopped.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘sorry. I was looking for’
The thin-faced girl lifted her head and smiled. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘You were looking for me.’
Connie wilted slightly, the way you do when you’ve been proved right but wish you hadn’t been. ‘You know what?’ she said. ‘I had this funny feeling that it was you, but I assumed it was just me being dozy. Hooray for intuition. So, you’re the new boss, then.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re the one who had me sacked.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’ve been making a nuisance of yourself.’
‘Ah.’ Connie nodded happily. ‘In that case, I forgive you. If it’d been because you thought I wasn’t any good at my job, I’d have’
‘You might as well sit down,’ the thin-faced girl said. Connie frowned, upset at being interrupted before she could work up a good head of righteous indignation, then she did as she was told.
‘I ‘ The thin-faced girl hesitated. ‘Obviously, you’ve been giving the current situation a lot of thought, and I would appreciate any insights you may have to offer.’
‘Coo.’ Connie grinned. ‘You know, that almost makes up for it. Oh, by the way,’ she added. ‘Who’s your friend?’
The thin-faced girl smiled. ‘He knows.’
He? Connie remembered about Colin, and turned round, to find him trying vainly to walk backwards through the corner of the room with his eyes shut. ‘Hey, you,’ she said. ‘Introductions, please.’
But Colin only shook his head; apparently he was having trouble with his language skills as well as with his motor functions. Instead, the odd-looking specimen sitting next to the thin girl stood up and bowed very slightly.
‘My name is Oscar,’ it said.
‘Charmed. I’m Connie Schwartz-Alberich. Sorry if I’m butting in on a private meeting.’
‘Not at all,’ the thing called Oscar said. ‘As it happens, we have just concluded our business with Ms Clay, and I’m needed back at Mortlake.’ It did something with its face that was presumably meant to be a smile. ‘Mr Hollingshead,’ it said, and Colin shuddered from head to foot. ‘I must confess, I’m surprised to see you here, but in fact your presence is rather timely. I fancy that you’re about to hear some good news. Farewell for ever.’
Then Oscar dipped its head, waggled its fingers in a tiny wave, and vanished, leaving behind a small yellow cloud that quickly dissipated into a bad memory and a worse smell.
‘Indeed,’ the thin-faced girl said, as though nothing noteworthy had happened. ‘Good news, Mr Hollingshead. You’re off the hook.’
‘Am I?’ Colin muttered. ‘Oh, great. What hook?’
‘The contract, of course,’ the thin-faced girl said. ‘It no longer applies to you, or to your father, for that matter. As far as Oscar and his associates are concerned, you’re free.’
It took a moment for that to sink in; and once it had, Colin was surprised by how little he felt. Releif, yes, but not the kind and strength he’d have anticipated. It was more you-don’t-have-to-go-to-tea-with-your-Aunt-Olive than saved-from-everlasting-torment. An irritation sidestepped, nothing more.
‘Great,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘Because someone else has agreed to take your place,’ the thin-faced girl said. ‘Don’t ask for further information, it might spoil it for you.’
Colin shook his head. ‘Who was it?’
‘Me.’
And that, as Connie was the first to recognise, was actually the most remarkable thing: that Colin, dosed to the eyeballs with JWW philtre, had been in the same room as Cassie for several minutes and had barely registered that she was the
re until she said that one word.
‘You?’
Cassie nodded. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s only fair. I got you into this mess.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ Colin snapped. ‘It was my stupid Dad, so it’s not fair. You were just doing your job.’
‘It’s still my fault,’ Cassie said, not looking at him. ‘And even if it isn’t, you shouldn’t have to suffer. You aren’t anything to do with us, the trade. You’re a civilian.’
It took Colin a moment to realise that she meant that as an insult.
‘Both of you.’ The thin-faced girl could talk quite loudly when she wanted to. ‘That’s enough. The simple fact is, Ms Clay has made a binding contract, and neither of you can do anything about it. Accordingly, Mr Hollingshead ’
‘I see.’ Connie had been sitting perfectly still for an uncharacteristically long time. ‘Yes, I get it. You need Colin off the hook so that he can reincarnate.’
‘Quite,’ said the thin-faced girl. ‘Also, he is morally blameless, and my organisation’s first priority ‘
‘Is to cover up its own messes, yes.’ Connie’s nostrils were flaring. ‘The last thing I’d expect from you right now is a holier-than-thou attitude, even if you are.’
‘Ah.’ The thin-faced girl scowled. ‘More intuition?’
‘Yes,’ Connie said firmly. ‘Oh, it wasn’t difficult. You buy up this firm, go to all this trouble, so that you can fix the True Love screw-up. Who else could you possibly be? I’m not quite sure,’ she went on, ‘if you’re the with-a-flaming-sword kind or the perched-on-top-of-a-Christmas-tree variety, but I don’t suppose it matters. And it still doesn’t give you the right to sack people for trying to help their friends.’
‘No, I suppose it doesn’t.’ The thin-faced girl shrugged. ‘Very well. Now that there’s not much point in trying to keep this wretched business confidential, I suppose you may as well have your job back.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘As you wish. You were a satisfactory employee but hardly irreplaceable; and besides, the affairs of this firm really don’t concern me much any more. As you say, Mr Hollingshead here is now cleared for reincarnation; the discrepancy can be dealt with, that’s all that matters. For my part, I’ve become heartily sick of this environment and I shall be delighted to go home again.’