The Better Mousetrap

by Tom Holt

  Might as well, he decided. Nothing better to do.

  Frank stood up and reached in his pocket for the Door. It wasn’t there.

  In a sense, it was exactly what he’d been hoping for. A few minutes ago, if asked what he wanted most in the world, he’d probably have said, ‘To stop moping around thinking about Emily.’ Fine; another wish granted ahead of schedule by the genie of the rafters. Thoughts of lost love and post-romantic nihilism evaporated out of his brain like spit on a hot stove.

  He performed the frantic, pathetic ballet of the man who’s just lost something: the pirouetting round and round, the pocket-patting, the ratting-terrier crouch (bum in the air, head under the sofa), the pacing up and down with eyes glued to the floor, the whole business. But the cabin was very small and very sparsely furnished. If he’d dropped the Door, or if it had fallen out of his pocket, it’d have stood out on his bare, uncluttered floorboards like a haystack in a packet of needles. It wasn’t there. It had been there a short while ago, because he’d used it to come home with. But it wasn’t there now.

  Had to be somewhere. Can’t have vanished as if by magic—

  Frank closed his eyes and flopped against a wall. By magic was almost certainly how it had vanished; basically, the reverse of the procedure by which Dad had come by it in the first place. Looked at from that perspective, there was a kind of beautiful symmetry about it. From every other angle, he was utterly screwed. Not just because he’d lost the only valuable thing he’d ever owned; without it, he was several days’ gruelling walk from the nearest source of food, and there wasn’t so much as a stale Ritz cracker in the house.

  He was looking around for something to prise the floorboards up with when he heard a creak behind him. He looked round, and saw a thin black line running horizontal across the back wall. As he stared at it, two more lines dropped down at each end, forming the outline of a rectangle.

  He’d never seen the Door opening from the outside, of course, just as you’ve never sat in the back seat of your own car. It was only when the handle appeared that he realised what he was looking at.

  He started to yelp with joy, then froze. The Door was opening. Someone was coming through it.

  For one horrible second, he thought it might turn out to be himself. But it wasn’t; he’d never have been able to cram his foot into the narrow black court shoe that crossed the threshold into the cabin. But if it wasn’t him—

  ‘Hello,’ Emily said.

  When Frank opened his mouth to reply, he had no idea what was going to come out of it. Could’ve been ‘That’s so wonderful, I thought I’d never see it again’; or ‘That’s so wonderful, I thought I’d never see you again’ (not his first thought, but valid nonetheless); or, if he’d been up to being cool and laid back about it all, ‘Hi, thanks for dropping in’; or even (it was there in his mind) ‘Oh God, the place is a real mess, it’s just I’ve been so busy lately’. As it was, he heard himself say, ‘It’s mine, you can’t have it, give it back.’

  Emily stood perfectly still and looked at him (and he thought, Well, that’s buggered that up, well done, Frank); because, of course, she’d heard all five versions.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, ‘I didn’t mean—’

  She winced, as though he’d shouted in her ear; then she had that let’s-get-it-over-with look on her face. ‘Frank,’ she said, ‘there’s something you ought to know about me.’

  Not what he’d been expecting; in fact, for a moment he forgot all about the Door.

  ‘Oh?’ he said. ‘Wh—’

  ‘No, please don’t say anything,’ she snapped. ‘Not anything at all, until I’ve explained.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Quiet!’

  She sounded just like his mother. At some point or other, all women do.

  ‘Now then.’ Emily perched on the edge of the table and gave him another look, but it wasn’t any of the looks in the handbook. ‘It’s a bit awkward. It’s got magic in it, for a start.’

  Frank knew he wasn’t allowed to speak, but nodding was presumably still permitted. He nodded.

  ‘When you say something—’ Pause. ‘Basically, it’s a side effect of drinking trolls’ blood.’ He must’ve pulled a face, because she gave him a don’t-be-such-a-cissy look which, he couldn’t help thinking, was a little bit much. ‘It was an accident,’ she went on, ‘I was doing a job earlier, a troll cut himself, I must’ve got a drop of his blood on my finger or something. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘it means that when you say something-well, I hear it, obviously, but I also hear what you really mean. What you wanted to say but didn’t. I can’t help it,’ she added, ‘it’s just magic, occupational hazard, and—’

  Frank could feel his face burning; the perfect beetroot impersonation. Absolutely no need for her to tell him to be quiet now. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Now you know. There’s an antidote, and I had a dose before I met you tonight and we went to your Mr Sprague’s office, but it sort of wore off, and—’

  He didn’t need troll’s blood to let him know what Emily was feeling, just as you don’t need to hear it ticking to know that a black pointy-nosed cylinder with fins is a bomb. It was, after all, exactly how he’d be feeling, in her shoes. Embarrassed, of course. Angry. Stress levels off the dial. And scared.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Say something.’

  ‘You told me not to.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  At which precise moment, Emily’s phone rang.

  About ringtones. They are, of course, a statement: about who you think you are, who you want to be, who you want other people to think you are, all that. The trouble is, you choose them in quiet, restful moments, when you’re generally off your guard. At such a time, your judgement is usually subordinated to your whim, and even a normally rational person is capable of thinking that having your phone warble Crazy Frog or James Blunt is a really fun idea. Or, as in Emily’s case, the Laughing Policeman.

  She cringed; which is a bit like saying the Second World War was a scuffle. At first, she pretended to ignore it, as if trying to make out that it was something going on in the street outside. Geography was against her there, though. She might just have got away with it if she’d gone with Rutting Stag, but basically she was on a hiding to nothing, and she knew it.

  ‘My phone,’ she whimpered. ‘Just a second.’

  She scrabbled in her pocket and pulled it out, hating it. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Emily. Colin Gomez here.’

  Colin Gomez had a carrying sort of voice, even over a mobile. Frank nodded, and stood up. ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea,’ he said.

  ‘Hello?’ Gomez, sounding faintly querulous. ‘Hello, are you there?’

  En route to the kettle, Frank stopped and watched Emily. She’d gone ever such a funny colour, and she seemed to have forgotten about breathing and stuff. Then she smiled.

  ‘Mr Gomez,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you called. I’m going to kill you.’

  ‘What? It’s not a terribly good line, you’ll have to speak—’

  ‘And when I’ve done that,’ Emily went on, ‘I’m going to chop you up into little bits and feed you to the piranhas in Sally Krank’s office. Oh, and I quit. Goodbye.’

  She stabbed a button so hard that Frank winced. Then she threw the phone across the room. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘My boss. He tried to murder me earlier. It’s all right,’ she added, ‘you can talk now.’

  Frank pressed his lips together and shook his head.

  ‘Please?’

  ‘Yes, but—’ And then the Policeman started Laughing again.

  ‘Oh for crying out loud.’ Emily lunged across the cabin, snatched up the phone, stabbed it again and snapped, ‘What?’

  ‘There’s no need to shout,’ said Colin Gomez’s voice. ‘First, I’d like to apologise for what happened earlier.’

  ‘You total fucking ba—’

  ‘And,’ Gomez went on, ‘I need to know if you still want your job.’ Silence, apart from a faint rumbling from the ket
tle. ‘Hello? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, of course I bloody well am. What do you—?’

  ‘I can’t explain over the phone,’ Gomez said. ‘But—’ His voice lowered, so that she could barely hear it. ‘Let’s say there could well be some changes in the way the firm’s run, quite soon. Not entirely unconnected with the, um, incident.’

  Frank looked at her. Troll’s blood, she’d said. Could he really love somebody it was impossible to lie to?

  (Yes, he thought.)

  ‘I see,’ Emily said. ‘Oh, while I think of it, when we went to see Mr Pickersgill, he cut himself.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I fail to see—’

  ‘Tastes like chicken.’

  ‘Ah.’ Long, long silence. ‘In which case,’ Gomez said brightly, ‘you believe me.’

  ‘No choice, really.’

  ‘Excellent. How soon can you be in my office?’

  Emily smiled. ‘You’d be surprised.’

  ‘Actually, I wouldn’t. You’ve got it, haven’t you?’

  Her eyebrows shot up, but she replied, ‘Long story.’ Slight hesitation. ‘If I come, you won’t try and kill me, will you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re right, actually, it would be. OK, I’ll be there.’ She stopped, and looked at Frank. ‘Soon. Something here I’ve got to take care of first.’

  ‘Be as quick as you can, then.’

  ‘No,’ she said, and hit the button.

  They looked at each other. ‘Tea’s ready,’ Frank said.

  Emily thought about what Gomez had just said-all of it. Then she dropped the phone on the floor and jumped on it. ‘So we won’t be interrupted,’ she said, and kissed him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Amelia Carrington was waiting for the phone to ring. To pass the time and take her mind off her own impatience, she flicked through the latest edition of the New Magical Express. Researchers in Thailand, she read, were claiming to have proved the existence of a hitherto unknown number somewhere between one and ten. The new number-an integer, of course, not a mere fraction-had so far only been detected as an otherwise inexplicable blip in extrapolated series of intervals, and until it could be properly identified and its value exactly calculated, it was too early to say what practical effect this discovery would have on the day-to-day business of magic. Amelia raised an eyebrow at that, and made a note on a scrap of paper to have someone look into the possibility of patenting the new number before it passed into the public domain; getting royalties every time someone added up a shopping list or a darts score appealed to her enormously, but not if the cost of enforcing the patent was likely to outweigh the returns. Look what had happened to Schreiber & Deeks in the States when they’d tried to copyright Thursday. The phone buzzed. She lunged at it and barked, ‘Yes?’ Not the call she’d been expecting. Amelia scowled, then said, ‘All right, send her in.’ A few seconds later, a slim blonde woman with huge eyes and an exaggerated bust walked through the door and perched on the edge of the visitor’s chair like a blue tit on a bird table.

  ‘Sarah,’ Amelia said. ‘What’s so important that you had to see me right away?’

  A sentient life form would’ve shrivelled up; but Sarah wasn’t a life form. Once, long ago, she’d been one of Amelia’s substantial collection of Barbies; the first, in fact, that Amelia had been able to bring to life for more than ten minutes. A simple augmentation charm to bring her up to normal human size, a course of accelerated memory implants and three years at Harvard Business School (where she’d fitted in perfectly) and Sarah was now one of Amelia’s most trustworthy and efficient assistants. And she didn’t mind holding still while Amelia styled her hair for her, either.

  ‘The bauxite project.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  Sarah looked grave. She couldn’t actually adjust her facial expression, which was set forever in the sweet simpering smile she’d been moulded with, but she’d learned to compensate with body language. ‘Dennis Tanner,’ she said. ‘He’s trying to double-cross you.’

  Amelia smiled. ‘Is he really?’

  Nod. Sarah had to be careful about that, because her head had a tendency to come off under stress. ‘He’s been snooping round behind our backs, buying up mineral rights. We don’t know where the money’s coming from, though we’re guessing it’s his goblin relations. At any rate, he’s got hold of the rights to all the land surrounding our original stake, so if the strike’s as big as we think it is—’

  ‘Oh, easily.’ Amelia yawned. ‘Huge.’

  Slight tilt of the head to express puzzlement. ‘In that case, he’s got us screwed. It’s not just the bauxite on what’s now his land, there’s other issues. Access, water, power cables. Basically, he can stop us dead in our tracks.’ Sarah paused; cue reaction, which didn’t come. I thought you ought to know,’ she concluded. ‘I thought you’d be—’

  Amelia giggled. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘All going according to plan. Listen, has he put together a proper consortium, or is it all just handshakes and gentlegoblins’ agreements?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I can find out.’

  ‘Yes, please. Quick as you like. And when you know who we should be talking to, offer to sell them our stake.’

  Sarah predated the quantum leap in Barbie technology that made it possible for the eyelids to go up and down, but Amelia had had her retro-engineered at great expense. She blinked. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Be subtle about it, of course. Use intermediaries, so it’s not obvious that we’re giving in. Make it look like we’re being double-crossed by our venture partners, something like that. We’ve got to be a bit careful, or we’ll scare him off.’

  ‘I see.’ Barbies don’t lie very well. ‘How much do we want for it?’

  Amelia beamed. ‘Lots,’ she said. ‘Say three times what it’s worth. It doesn’t actually matter, but if we make him pay through the nose it’ll stop him getting too suspicious.’ She frowned slightly. ‘I do hope you’re right and it’s the goblins who’re financing him. Goblins can be very direct when they’re upset with someone, especially when money’s involved.’

  Shrug. ‘Of course. I’ll get on it straight away.’

  ‘I know you will,’ Amelia said fondly. ‘You’re a treasure. Oh, and there’s a dozen new pairs of shoes for you to try on down in reception.’

  Sarah nodded and stood up. ‘Colin Gomez wants a word as soon as you’re free,’ she said. ‘He left a message on your voice-mail late last night. Didn’t say what it was about.’

  Amelia grinned. ‘I can guess,’ she said. ‘All right, thank you.’

  Sarah left, and then the phone rang. This time, it was the call.

  Amelia gave them their orders, telling them to coordinate with Sarah about timing. ‘Whatever you do,’ she emphasised, ‘don’t let it go before she’s sold the land to the Tanners. Yes, of course you don’t understand, but she does. All right? Fine.’

  She put the receiver back carefully, as if afraid of waking it up, then sat back in her chair and breathed deeply. It was, she decided, a wonderful world; a world full of opportunities. A world that needed bauxite, and would very soon find itself paying a lot more for it than it was used to. Her kind of planet, basically. Assuming that Colin Gomez had finally done as he was told. Her smile flickered briefly, and she picked up the phone. ‘Colin?’

  ‘It’s you.’ His voice was oddly high and strained. ‘Sorry, of course it is. Yes, all done.’

  ‘You’ve killed her, then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Get in here.’

  Short delay, during which Amelia amused herself with the New Magical Express crossword. (‘Shape-shifting magic of Julia Roberts’, six letters beginning with G. Yawn; too easy.) Then Colin came in and flumped down in the spare chair like a sack of worried potatoes.

  ‘With you in a moment - oh.’

  Colin looked up at her. ‘What?’

  ‘It doesn’t fit, there’s too many letters. Oh, of course, it’s the American edition.’
She smiled at him. ‘Why can’t Americans spell?’ she said. ‘Never mind. You’ve killed her at last. Good.’

  He nodded. ‘It took some doing,’ he said. ‘I found out why she kept on not staying dead.’

  Amelia frowned slightly. ‘Really.’

  ‘Yes indeed.’

  She waited, but Colin just sat there looking like a fish. ‘Well? How was she doing it?’

  ‘It wasn’t actually her,’ Colin replied. ‘She had help. And you’ll never guess—’

  ‘Get on with it.’

  Colin dabbed a tiny trickle of sweat off the shiny slopes of his forehead. ‘It was the insurance people, actually,’ he said. ‘Because we’ve got her insured against death in service, like all the junior staff.’

  ‘Have we?’ Amelia frowned. ‘Yes, I suppose we have. What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Well.’ Not his usual chatty, hard-to-make-him-shut-up self. More running in fits and starts, like a Land Rover engine. ‘The insurance people didn’t want to pay out on the claim—’

  ‘Don’t take any rubbish from them,’ Amelia said sharply.

  ‘No, of course not. But apparently they’ve hit on a way of not coughing up. They make it so the accident giving rise to the claim never happened.’

  Amelia frowned. ‘That’s impossible.’

  For some reason, Colin took a deep breath. ‘Not,’ he said, ‘if they’ve got a Portable Door.’

  The same thought crossed both of their minds simultaneously; Amelia Carrington should’ve been an actress. ‘A what?’

  ‘The Acme Portable Door,’ Colin said. ‘I’m sure you must’ve heard of it.’

  ‘What? Oh, that. But it doesn’t exist, surely. It’s a thingummy, urban myth.’ (So that’s what all this has been about, Colin thought. I was right.)

  ‘Apparently it does,’ Colin said. ‘And the idiots at the insurance company got hold of it. Well, not personally. They hired the man who’d got it, as a freelance. And when Spitzer had her accident, falling out of the tree—’

  ‘He made it not happen, I see. How annoying.’