Open Sesame
Page 29
Bleep, said the fax machine. Susan Sarandon.
No. Surely not. I couldn’t.
But why not?
She picked the kettle up off the floor, filled it and switched it on. There was, she reminded herself, a dead body in her kitchen; another mess to clear up, and not something you could put off, like washing the dishes or ironing. Dead bodies don’t come with Inhume By dates clearly printed on their foreheads, but she had an idea they had to be dealt with fairly quickly; and, this being reality, she was going to have to do either an awful lot of explaining or some extremely surreptitious digging. Oh bother.
She looked at the fax machine.
Looked at from another angle, it was a clear case of dual nationality. Although she’d lived all her life in Reality, she had now been given to understand that her father was in fact a native of Over There, where talking blenders are quite probably the norm, and boiled burglars so commonplace an occurrence that there’s probably a little man with a cart who comes round three times a week to collect them and take them away.
The hell with it. Escapism is only futile and self-defeating if you can’t actually escape. Closing her eyes, she jammed her right hand into the paper feed of the fax and
‘Hello,’ said Ali Baba. ‘What kept you?’
‘Hey,’ muttered Sadiq, his voice reverberating through the earthenware. ‘Where did she get to?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ replied Aziz. ‘All she said to me was, Climb into those jars there, I’ll be back in a minute. Seemed to me she knew what she was talking about, so I did like she told me. Always been a rule with me; if somebody who looks like they know what’s going on tells me to do something, I do it.’
‘Fair enough,’ Sadiq said. ‘Be nice to know what we’re meant to be doing, though. Just for once.’
Aziz frowned. ‘Would it?’ he asked. ‘Why?’
‘Dunno. I just thought that maybe ’
Glug glug glug.
Cue past lives.
Scheherezade was alone.
‘Yippee!’ she said.
Because, Storyside, one thing you can never be is on your own. A character in a story has to be with other people, interacting with them, loving them, hating them, kissing them, killing them, rescuing them, robbing them, or else cease to exist. This side of the Line, the only person who can be alone is the storyteller.
She stood up and looked around. From this high point she could see for miles in every direction, and what she saw was nothing; or rather, nothing’s understudy, sand. She was in some kind of desert. Ideal.
‘Only I insist,’ she said aloud, ‘on a tap. And a fridge. And a deckchair and a beach umbrella.’ Saying it that way made it sound like three wishes, not four; besides, it was her story so she was allowed to cheat.
There was a tap. And a fridge. And a deckchair and a beach umbrella.
‘Hello,’ said the fridge. ‘What’ll it be?’
‘A turkey sandwich and a nice long cool drink,’ Scheherezade replied without looking round. She turned the tap, and water started to gush out, rapidly filling the small hollow below the rock in whose shade the deckchair stood. ‘Give me a shout when it’s ready,’ she added. ‘I’ll be over there by the pool.’
As she sipped her drink - the fridge had tried to fob her off with water but a quick rewrite had fixed all that - she reflected on what she’d achieved so far. The Godfather was gone; no more infiltration of Reality, no more wishes you can’t refuse. Whatever story he was in now was welcome to him. As for Baba and the forty thieves, the story had served its purpose and could be left to carry on as before. Evermore, Sesame would open, the thieves would die in their jars, rewind, go back to the beginning. It would be the same with all the stories now, except that there would have to be a few new ones. That would be no hardship. Neverland is big enough to accommodate anything; compared to it, Infinity’s a studio flat in Hong Kong.
‘Could I be a real nuisance,’ she asked, ‘and have a jar of barrier cream?’
(Her first major rewrite; the couplet now went
Ajar of barrier cream beneath the beach umbrella,
A glass of gin, a turkey sandwich and hold the Thou
- So maybe it didn’t rhyme; so what?)
That wish being granted, Scheherezade leaned back in her deckchair, closed her eyes and lived happily ever after.
‘Three quarter-pounders with cheese, three large fries, two regular kiwi fruit shakes, and a large tea.’
Akram opened his eyes. ‘Sorry?’ he said.
‘Three quarter-pounders with cheese, three large fries, two regular kiwi fruit shakes, and a large tea.’
‘Ah,’ said Akram. ‘So I did die, then.’
‘Three quarter-poun’
‘What did you just say?’ Akram looked the customer in the eyes and smiled enormously. ‘I must be dead,’ he said, ‘or else how come I’m in heaven? Or are they doing day trips now?’
The customer took two steps back. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘forget the order, I’ve changed my mind. Gosh, is that the time? I must be…’
‘No,’ Akram said quickly, ‘don’t go. Sorry, I was miles away. Right, three quarter-pounders.’
‘With cheese. And three large fries, two regular kiwi fruit…’
‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ Akram replied sincerely. ‘Coming right up.’
He turned to get the order and found himself face to face with a dazzlingly beautiful girl with long, straight blonde hair under a baseball cap bearing the legend Akram’s Diner. ‘Fang?’ he queried.
She nodded. ‘And no, you’re not dead,’ she said. ‘Come on, customer waiting.’
Later, during a brief lull, he took off his own baseball cap and read the words blazoned on it.
‘You’re wrong, you know,’ he said. ‘This is heaven. There may be another place of the same name somewhere that’s all pink clouds and harp music, but I don’t want to go there.’
Fang slit open a new sack of pre-sliced chips and dumped them in the fryer. ‘You are not dead,’ she insisted. ‘And this is not heaven. It’s just a small-time fast-food joint on the interface between the two sides of the Line. Only gets three stars in the Guide Dunlop.’ She grinned. ‘And in case you think that’s good, most dustbins get four stars.’
Akram shrugged. ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘Gives me something to aim at. Fine afterlife it’d be without a sense of purpose.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Excuse me asking,’ he said carefully, ‘but, um, what are you doing here? Not,’ he added quickly, ‘that you don’t deserve it or anything like that; I just thought that tooth fairies probably had a rather different sort of paradise, like an elephant’s graveyard or a snooker-ball factory.’
‘You haven’t been listening, have you?’ replied Fang indulgently. ‘This is not the pudding, we’re still on the main course. This is just where that dicky fax put us down after we zapped out of your old hideout. Recognise it yet?’
Akram looked round; it was sort of familiar, in a way. It was almost ‘Jim’s,’ he muttered. ‘Jim’s Diner. God, yes, I’d know it anywhere. Except that ’
Fang nodded. ‘Now it’s yours, apparently. You don’t seem unduly upset by that.’
‘Good Lord, no.’ Akram cut open another bag of chips and dropped them into the boiling oil. Palm oil? Outside the back door, were there forty empty jars waiting for the delivery man to come and take them away? ‘It’s just such a strange coincidence. The happiest time of any of my lives was when I was assistant manager at that burger place, and now here I am with a burger place of my own. Is this some sort of witness relocation programme, or what?’
Fang shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ she said.
‘That’d make some sort of sense, as far as I’m concerned. Otherwise it’d be one hell of a coincidence.’
‘It would?’
Akram looked at her. ‘You mean, you always wanted to work in a fast-food joint too?’
‘Don’t be obtuse,’ Fang replied, and kissed him. ‘And if you dare count your te
eth,’ she added, once she’d let him go again, ‘I’ll be bitterly offended. Like you, I think I’ve retired from all that blood-and-bones stuff. About time, too.’
Akram let it all sink in while he served a couple of customers. After all, he told himself, why not? Perhaps there is such a thing as a happy ending after all, and this is it.
He hoped so. For you, a voice deep inside him muttered, the Story is over. He thought of all those POW escape movies, where at the very end the heroes come to a lonely frontier post in the snow-capped mountains, and suddenly they’re in Switzerland. Now then, supposing this was meant to be Switzerland (have to tidy up a bit, give it a lick of paint first, maybe clean the windows) and suppose that, instead of going home and rejoining his regiment, he stayed here, for ever. Mountain air, nice people, good standard of living, all the melted cheese you can eat; there are worse places. Somewhere neutral, a hidden enclave halfway between still being in the adventure and living happily ever after; yes, he could really go for that. He’d been right first time, except for the death part. Formica-topped tables, vinyl-covered seats, a big greasy deep-fat fryer and a milk-shake machine. Heaven.
‘This’ll do me,’ he said. ‘I’m staying. What about you?’
Fang shrugged. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘It sure beats the hell out of being four inches tall. Here’s to Catering.’
Now then, where to end? The beginning would be the most logical place. So; as the chips sizzle in the oil and the water simmers in the big enamel urn
Cue future lives.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE