Expecting Someone Taller

by Tom Holt

  He looked at his watch; it was half-past two in the morning. He toyed with the idea of transporting himself to Los Angeles or Adelaide, where it would be light and he could get a cup of coffee without waking up the housekeeper. He was on the point of doing this when he heard a noise in the corridor outside.

  Combe Hall was full of unexplained noises, which everyone he asked attributed to the plumbing. But something told Malcolm that plumbing made gurgling noises, not stealthy creeping noises. Without understanding why, he knew that he was in danger, and something told him that it was probably the right time for him to become invisible.

  His bedroom door was locked, and he stood beside it. Outside, he could hear footsteps, which stopped. There was a scrabbling sound, a click and the door opened gently. He recognised the face of Alberich, peering into the room, and for a moment was rooted to the spot. Then it occurred to him that he was considerably bigger than Alberich, and also invisible. The Nibelung crept into the room and tiptoed over to the bed. As he bent over it, Malcolm kicked him hard.

  It would be unfair to Malcolm to say that he did not know his own strength. He knew his own strength very well (or rather his lack of it) but as yet he had not come to terms with the strength of Siegfried the Dragon-Slayer. As a result, he hit Alberich very hard indeed. The intruder uttered a loud yelp and fell over.

  Malcolm was horrified. His first reaction was that he must have killed Alberich, but a loud and uncomplicated complaint from his victim convinced him that that was not so. His next reaction was to apologise.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘You clumsy idiot,’ said the Prince of the Nibelungs, ‘you’ve broken my leg.’

  It occurred to Malcolm that this served Alberich right, and he said so. In fact, he suggested, Alberich was extremely lucky to get off so lightly, since presumably he had broken in with the intention of committing murder.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Alberich. ‘I only wanted the Ring.’

  He made it sound as if he had just dropped by to borrow a bowl of sugar. ‘Now, about my broken leg . . .’

  ‘Never mind your broken leg.’

  ‘I mind it a lot. Get a doctor.’

  ‘You’re taking a lot for granted, aren’t you?’ said Malcolm sternly. ‘You’re my deadliest enemy. Why shouldn’t I . . . well, dispose of you, right now?’

  Alberich laughed. ‘You?’ he said incredulously. ‘Who do you think you are, Jack the Ripper?’

  ‘I could be if I wanted to,’ said Malcolm. The Nibelung ignored him.

  ‘You wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ he sneered. ‘That’s your trouble. You’ll never get anywhere in this world unless you improve your attitude. And did no-one ever tell you it’s bad manners to be invisible when someone’s talking to you?’

  ‘You sound just like my mother,’ said Malcolm.

  He reappeared, and Alberich glowered at him. ‘Still pretending to be who you aren’t, I see,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll be who I want to be. I’m not afraid of you any more.’

  ‘Delighted to hear it. Perhaps you’ll fetch a doctor now.’

  ‘And the police,’ said Malcolm, to frighten him. ‘You’re a burglar.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ replied Alberich, but Malcolm could see he was worried. This was remarkable. A few minutes ago, he had been paralysed with fear. Now he found the whole thing vaguely comic. Still, it would be as well to call a doctor. He went to the telephone beside his bed.

  ‘Not that sort of doctor,’ said Alberich, irritably. ‘What do you think I am, human?’

  ‘So what sort of doctor do you want?’ Malcolm asked.

  ‘A proper doctor. A Nibelung.’

  ‘Fine. And how do you suggest I set about finding one, look in the Yellow Pages?’

  ‘Don’t be facetious. Use the Ring.’

  ‘Can I do that?’ Malcolm was surprised by this.

  ‘Of course you can. Just rub the Ring against your nose and call for a doctor.’

  Feeling rather foolish, Malcolm did what he was told. At once, a short, stocky man with very pale skin materialised beside him, wearing what appeared to be a sack.

  ‘You called?’ said the Nibelung.

  ‘Where did you come from?’ Malcolm asked.

  ‘Nibelheim, where do you think? So where’s the patient?’

  The doctor did something to Alberich’s leg with a spanner and a jar of ointment, and disappeared as suddenly as he had come.

  ‘That’s handy,’ Malcolm said. ‘Can I just summon Nibelungs when I want to?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Alberich. ‘Although why you should want to is another matter. By and large, they’re incredibly boring people.’

  Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anyway, how’s your leg?’ he asked.

  ‘Very painful. But it’s healed.’

  ‘Healed? But I thought you said it was broken.’

  ‘So it was,’ replied Alberich, calmly. ‘And now it’s unbroken again. That’s what the doctor was for. It’ll be stiff for a day or so, of course, but that can’t be helped. If you will go around kicking people, you must expect to cause anguish and suffering.’

  Malcolm yawned. ‘In that case, you can go away and leave me in peace,’ he said. ‘And don’t let me catch you around here again, or there’ll be trouble.’

  This bravado didn’t convince anyone. Alberich made no attempt to move, but sat on the floor rubbing his knee, until Malcolm, unable to think of anything else to do, offered him a drink.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ said Alberich. ‘I’ll have a large schnapps, neat.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve got any of that,’ said Malcolm.

  ‘You’re supposed to be a German. Oh well, whatever comes to hand, so long as it isn’t sherry. I don’t like sherry.’

  So it was that Malcolm found himself sharing a bottle of gin with the Prince of Nibelheim at three o’clock in the morning. It was not something he would have chosen to do, especially after a tiring day, but the mere fact that he was able to do it was remarkable enough. Alberich made no further attempt to relieve him of the Ring; he didn’t even mention the subject until Malcolm himself raised it. Instead, he talked mostly about his health, or to be precise, his digestion.

  ‘Lobster,’ he remarked more than once, ‘gives me the most appalling heartburn. And gooseberries . . .’

  In short, there was nothing to fear from Alberich, and Malcolm found himself feeling rather sorry for the Nibelung, who, by his own account at least, had had rather a hard time.

  ‘It wasn’t the gold I wanted,’ he said. ‘I wanted to get my own back on those damned women.’

  ‘Which women?’

  ‘The Rhinedaughters. I won’t bore you with all the details. Not a nice story.’ Alberich helped himself to some more gin. ‘There I was, taking a stroll beside the Rhine on a pleasant summer evening, and these three girls, with no more clothes on than would keep a fly warm . . .’

  ‘I know all that,’ said Malcolm.

  ‘Do you?’ said Alberich, rather disappointed. ‘Oh well, never mind. But it wasn’t the power or the money I wanted - well, they would have been nice, I grant you, I’m not saying they wouldn’t - but it’s the principle of the thing. You know how it is when someone takes something away from you without any right to it at all. You feel angry. You feel hard done by. And if that thing is the control of the world, you feel very hard done by indeed. Not that I want to control the world particularly - I imagine I’d do it very badly. But it’s like not being invited to a party, you feel hard done by even if you wouldn’t have gone if they’d asked you. I know I’m not explaining this very well . . . You can get obsessive about it, you know? Especially if you’ve thought about nothing else for the last thousand years.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have done something else, to take your mind off it? Got a job, or something?’

  ‘This may seem strange, but having been master of the world for forty-eight hours - that’s how lon
g they let me keep the Ring, you know - doesn’t really qualify you for much. And they threw me out of Nibelheim.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘They did. You can’t really blame them. I had enslaved them and made them mine gold for me. They weren’t best pleased.’

  ‘So what have you been doing ever since?’

  ‘Moping about, mostly, feeling sorry for myself. And looking for the Ring, of course. And a bit of freelance metallurgy, just to keep the wolf from the door. My card.’

  He took a card from his wallet. ‘Hans Albrecht and partners, ’ it read, ‘Mining Engineers and Contractors, Est. AD 900.’

  ‘Most people think the date’s a misprint,’ said Alberich, ‘but it’s not. Anyway, that’s what I’ve been doing, and a thoroughly wretched time I’ve had, too.’

  ‘Have another drink,’ Malcolm suggested.

  ‘You’re too kind,’ said Alberich. ‘Mind you, if I have too much to drink these days, it plays hell with my digestion. Did I tell you about that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Alberich shook his head sadly. ‘I’m boring you, I can tell. But let me tell you something useful. Even if you won’t give me the Ring, don’t let Wotan get his hands on it.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning to,’ said Malcolm. ‘Another?’

  ‘Why not? And then I must be going. It’s late, and you’ve been a horse all afternoon. That’s tiring, I know. Now, about Wotan. I don’t know how you’ve managed it, but you’ve got the Ring to do what you want it to. Not what I had intended when I made it, let me say. In fact, I can’t remember what I intended when I made it. It’s been a long time. Anyway. Is there any tonic left?’

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. About Wotan. He’s devious, very devious, but if you’ve got the Ring on your side . . .’

  Malcolm thought of something incredibly funny. ‘I haven’t got the Ring on my side,’ he said, ‘I’ve got it on my finger.’

  They had a good laugh over that. ‘No, but seriously,’ said Alberich, ‘if you can make the Ring do what you want it to, then there’s nothing Wotan can do to you unless you want him to.’

  ‘But I don’t want him to do anything to me. I want him to go away.’

  ‘That’s what you think. Like I said, Wotan is devious. Devious devious devious. He’ll get you exactly where he wants you unless you’re very careful, I assure you.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘That, my friend, remains to be seen. The days of armed force and violence are long gone, I’m sorry to say. It’s cleverness that gets results. It’s the same in the mining industry. Did I tell you about that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Malcolm lied. ‘Go on about Wotan.’

  Alberich looked at the bottom of his glass. Unfortunately, there was nothing to obscure his view of it. He picked up the bottle, but it was empty.

  ‘I am going to have raging indigestion all tomorrow,’ he said sadly. ‘Don’t let them tell you there’s no such thing as spontaneous combustion. I suffer from it continually. Wotan can’t take the Ring from you, but he can make you give it to him of your own free will. And before you ask me, I don’t know how he’ll do it, but he’ll think of something. Have you got any Bisodol?’

  ‘I can get you a sandwich.’

  ‘A sandwich? Do you want to kill me as well as breaking my leg? No, don’t you let go of the Ring, Malcolm Fisher. If I can’t have it, you might as well keep it. It’ll be safe with you until you’re ready to give it to me.’

  Malcolm looked uncomfortable at this. Alberich laughed.

  ‘Of your own free will, I mean. But that won’t happen until it isn’t a symbol of power any more, only a bit of old jewellery. It’ll happen, though, you mark my words. See how it ends.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I don’t.’ Alberich rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘Time I was going.’

  ‘How’s your leg?’

  ‘My leg? Oh, that’s fine, it’s my stomach I’m worried about. I’m always worried about my stomach. We sulphur-dwarves were created out of the primal flux of the earth’s core. We have always existed, and we will always exist, in some form or other. You can kill us, of course, but unless you do, we live for ever. The problem is, if you’re made largely of sulphur, you are going to suffer from heartburn, and there’s nothing at all you can do about it. Over the past however many it is million years, I have tried absolutely every remedy for dyspepsia that has ever been devised, and they’re all useless. All of them. In all the years I’ve been alive, there was only one time I didn’t have indigestion. You know when that was? The forty-eight hours when I had the Ring. Good night.’

  ‘You can stay here if you like,’ said Malcolm.

  ‘That’s kind of you, but I’ve got a room over at the Blue Boar. The fresh air will clear my head. I’ll see myself out.’

  ‘That reminds me. How did you get in here?’

  ‘Through the front door. I have a way with locks.’

  ‘And how did you find me in the first place?’

  ‘Easy. I smelt the Ring. Once you started using it, that was no problem.’

  Alberich went to the door, then turned. ‘Do you know something, Malcolm Fisher?’ he said. ‘It goes against the grain saying this, but I like you. In a way. Up to a point. You can keep the Ring for the time being. I like what you’re doing with it.’

  Malcolm wanted to say something but could think of nothing.

  ‘And if ever there’s anything . . . Oh, forget it. Good luck.’

  A few minutes later, Malcolm heard the front door slam. He got back into bed and switched off the light. It was nearly morning, and he was very tired.

  Two ravens were perched on the telegraph pole outside the Blue Boar in Combe.

  ‘It’s definitely coming from near here somewhere,’ said Thought.

  Memory had been listening for the Voice all day, and he no longer believed in it. ‘You’ve been overdoing it,’ he said. ‘Maybe you should take a couple of days off. We can’t hear the Ring, either of us. It’s not possible.’

  In the road below, a short, heavily-built man was waiting for the night porter to open the door of the hotel. Thought flapped his wings to attract his partner’s attention.

  ‘Look,’ he whispered, ‘down there.’

  ‘It’s Alberich,’ replied Memory. ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘I told you,’ said Thought. ‘I told you and you wouldn’t . . .’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Memory uneasily. ‘Doesn’t prove anything, does it? I mean, he could be here for some totally different reason.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Memory stared blankly at his claws. ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘But it still doesn’t mean . . .’

  ‘Come on,’ said Thought, ‘we’ve found him. He’s somewhere in this village. We’d better tell Wotan.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Memory shook his head. ‘You can if you like. If we’re wrong, and Wotan comes flogging out here on a fool’s errand . . .’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  They racked their brains for a moment, but in vain. Then Thought had a sudden inspiration. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘We’ll tell Loge. Then it’ll be his duty to pass the message on to the Boss.’

  The two ravens laughed, maliciously.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Alberich woke up next morning with a thick head, a weary heart, and indigestion. He took a taxi to Taunton, only to find that he had missed the London train, and was faced with an hour in one of the dreariest towns he had ever come across in the course of a very long life.

  The only possible solution was a cup or two of strong, drinkable coffee, and he set off to find it. As he sat in a grimly coy coffee shop in Kingston Road, he tried to turn over in his mind the various courses of action still open to him, but found that rational thought was not possible in his state of health and the centre of Taunton. He gave it up, and as he did so became aware of a familiar voice behind him:

  ‘Really,’ it was saying, ‘nobody’s worn that shade of
blue since the twelfth century. I couldn’t go out looking like that.’

  ‘You should have thought of that earlier,’ said another voice, just as familiar. ‘You’re impossible sometimes.’

  The last time Alberich had heard those two voices, and the third voice that broke in to contradict them both, was in the depths of the Rhine, about a thousand years ago. He turned round slowly.

  ‘What are you three doing here?’ he asked.

  Flosshilde smiled sweetly at him, with the result that the milk in his coffee turned to cream. ‘Hello, Alberich,’ she said. ‘How’s the digestion?’

  ‘Awful. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Drinking coffee. What about you?’

  ‘Don’t be flippant.’

  ‘But that’s what we do best,’ said Woglinde, also smiling. There was little point to this, except pure malice, for Alberich had forsworn Love and was therefore immune to all smiles, even those of Rhinedaughters. But Woglinde smiled anyway, as a sportsman who can find no pheasants will sometimes take a shot at a passing crow. ‘We’re too set in our ways to change now.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Alberich asked.

  ‘That would be telling,’ said Wellgunde, twitching her nose like a rabbit. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Tourism,’ said Alberich with a shudder. ‘I like grim, miserable places where there’s nothing at all to do.’

  ‘You would,’ said Flosshilde. That, so far as she was concerned, closed the subject. But Wellgunde was rather more cautious.

  ‘We’re out shopping,’ she said artlessly. ‘Everyone’s looking to Taunton for colours this season.’

  ‘In fact,’ said Flosshilde, ‘Taunton is the place where it’s all happening these days.’ She giggled, and Wellgunde kicked her under the table.

  Alberich shook his head, which was a rash move on his part. ‘You’ll find it harder than you imagine,’ he said. ‘You won’t be able to trap him easily.’

  ‘Trap who?’

  Alberich ignored her. ‘What you fail to take into account,’ he continued, ‘is his extreme lack of self-confidence. Even if he does fall in love with one or all of you, he’s highly unlikely to feel up to doing anything about it. He’ll just go home and feel miserable. And then what will you have achieved?’