by Tom Holt
‘So you’ve tried one, have you?’
The voice at the other end of the line became stiff with coagulated dignity. ‘I owe it to my craft to sample as many out-of-the-way experiences as possible, I grant you. I still draw the line at—’
‘I can write you a pair of Colt forty-fives.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘With pearl handles.’
‘Anachronism.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Bone,’ Regalian replied. ‘Ivory, even. But not pearl.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Um. Common knowledge. Read it in a magazine in a dentist’s waiting room somewhere. Look . . .’
‘You can have,’ said Jane enticingly, ‘any name you like. Kansas City Zeke. The Lightning Kid.’
‘Do you mind? I’ve only just eaten.’
‘All right then, you can be Jedediah Something. That authentic enough for you?’
‘I really wouldn’t know,’ Regalian replied sternly. ‘As I say, a mere fleeting acquaintance with some of the less painfully embarrassing examples of a certain popular musical genre—’
‘You’ll do it, then?’
‘Escapist ephemera, the opium of the masses—’
‘I’ll get on to it,’ said Jane, ‘straight away.’
There was a long silence, during which Jane held her breath. A customer came up to the desk with three copies of the hardback for her to sign, but she ignored him.
‘If you absolutely insist,’ Regalian sighed. ‘But I demand a full written indemnity, together with—’
‘Ride ’em, cowboy.’
‘Oh drop dead.’
‘Whad the hed,’ Hamlet demanded, ‘kebt you? I’be been waitidd here for hours.’
Jane raised an eyebrow. ‘Why are you talking in that funny voice?’ she asked.
‘Nud of your biddined. Now, I need a needuw and some thread, and—’
‘Later. We’ve got a train to catch.’
‘Slow dowd, will you? Do you wabt my ledz to fall off too?’
Regalian strode into the bar, a character with motivation.
There was a moment of stunned silence, during which you could have heard a pin drop on deep satin cushions, followed by the first snigger, followed by laughter, freestyle, at will.
Regalian ignored it. He stopped at the counter, placed a pointed toecap on the brass rail, and called for whisky.
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked the barmaid. Her name was Trish, and when trade was slack she knitted for her niece’s baby.
‘You heard me,’ Regalian growled. ‘Whisky. And keep it coming.’ He slapped a silver dollar down on the counter-top, spilling a small plate of peanuts.
‘There’s no need to take that tone with me,’ said Trish. ‘And watch what you’re doing, will you? You’ll scratch the formica.’
After the novelty of Regalian making an idiot of himself in a different way had worn off, the other occupants of the bar drifted away, leaving him alone with his drink, his rather uncomfortable clothes (the shirt itched) and his thoughts.
It posed an interesting technical problem. In theory it’s impossible for a character from one writer’s books to get into someone else’s book (that would be plagiarism). In practice it happens all the time, but usually by accident, or at least unconsciously. Doing it on purpose is one of the hardest tasks an author can undertake. When it’s attempted, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, a new character is created in a totally new book. Both the book and the character strongly resemble the originals, but with subtle differences that generally sabotage the attempt.
Over a second glass of whisky, Regalian did his best to recall what he had learnt in Theory class at character school. This didn’t come easily (he’d spent most Theory lessons trying to analyse the motivation of the girl sitting opposite) but, with the third, fourth and fifth whiskies, things began to come back to him, albeit rather bedraggled and with several days’ growth of beard. He considered.
Authorship theory, he remembered, is a subdivision of basic creation theory. Creation theory is easy.
In an infinite, curved universe, everything is possible. One needs only to recognise the possibility of a particular set of circumstances, and it then exists, somewhere, in some form. This is creation theory. Let there be light; and there is light. Let, by the same token, there be huge single-cell life forms called greebles who inhabit ventilation shafts and eat the smell of cheese, and there are greebles. The difference is that light is a fairly sensible, practical concept which can fit into virtually all reality systems; whereas greebles can only subsist in the really low-rent backstreets of reality where nobody gives a damn any more, and where no one with any sense ever goes except as the result of a horrible accident.
Fine, said Regalian to himself, that’s basic creation theory. He found a half-eaten packet of smoky bacon crisps in his jacket pocket and started to chew.
Authors do to creation theory what highly paid accountants do to the tax laws; without breaking the rules, they contrive to bend them to such an extent that they might as well be made of Plasticine.
Authors take untrue things, people who don’t exist, events that never happened, and make other people believe in them. Belief is water poured on the blazing chip-pan of creation. A fictional thing which people believe in can never be real, but it can exist far more vehemently than any number of real things which are too boring for anybody to be interested in. The shipping forecast is real, but The Archers live because people want them to.
Basic authorship theory.
‘More whisky.’
‘That’ll be one pound forty, please.’
‘Here.’
‘Sorry, we don’t take foreign money here.’
‘Hey, this is a saloon, ain’t it?’
‘Well, it says saloon bar on the door.’
‘Right. Well, in any saloon this side of the Rio Bravo, a silver dollar buys a bottle of raw drinkin’ whisky. Or are you callin’ me a liar?’
Trish’s brows furrowed. On the one hand, the better part of her intellect advised her that she was going to have fun and games persuading them to accept silver dollars at the bank in the morning. On the other hand, an influential minority of her could see the logic; and besides, a big coin made of pure silver’s got to be worth a lot of money, hasn’t it?
‘Right you are, then,’ she said.
Basic authorship theory, as amended by the publishers’ lawyers, goes on to say that characters can exist without being real, on the strict understanding that they stay inside their books and don’t ever get loose, because of the damage they would inevitably cause this side of the screen.
Basic authorship theory, as further amended by the writers’ agents, goes further and states that in any event a character belongs to his author body, soul and merchandising rights, and has to do exactly what he’s told on pain of editing.
Basic authorship theory, as further amended by the characters’ agents, adds the proviso that characters can only believably do things which are in character, and any attempt to get out of their allotted book would be a breach of credibility, resulting in immediate implosion.
Basic authorship theory, as amended by inserting a crowbar into a weak seam and leaning on it, states that there are loopholes. These range from the well-known minor technicalities, which make it possible for tired and overworked authors to carry out the occasional discreet cattle-raid into an adjoining author’s stock of ideas, to the celebrated and entirely mythical airlock in the cellars underneath the west wing of the Library of Congress.
There is no known loophole that allows a character from one book to hop into another book whenever he likes. By the same token, there is no way of getting into the vaults of the First State Bank of Idaho without first going past the security; but only because to date nobody has stacked a wagonload of dynamite up against the wall and lit the fuse.
Coincidentally, in a dimension long ago and far away, the senior partner of Messrs Shark, Shark and S
hark, a firm of lawyers with a very specialised but extremely lucrative practice, was advising a client.
‘Now then,’ said Mr Shark. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve given any real thought to constructive inheritance tax planning. Well, have you?’
King Lear bit his lip. ‘Now you mention it,’ he replied, ‘I can’t say I have.’
Mr Shark shook his head sadly. ‘It’s about time you did, don’t you think? What I would advise you to do is to gift over your kingdom to your two eldest daughters. Then, provided you survive the gift by seven years, there’ll be no tax to pay whatsoever.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
King Lear rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Sounds like a good idea, then. Only - well, it’s a bit drastic, isn’t it? Just sort of giving it to them like that with no strings attached. What if . . .’
Mr Shark frowned. ‘Can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, now can we? I mean, do you want to be stuck with a massive great tax bill?’
‘No, no, of course not. But couldn’t I keep a little something back? A hundred knights, say, something like that?’
Mr Shark sighed. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but that would constitute a gift with reservation, which is caught by the anti-avoidance provisions and that would render the whole scheme void. And if a thing’s worth doing—’
‘Yes, you’re right, I suppose. But why only my two eldest daughters? Isn’t that a bit rough on the youngest? She’s a good kid, and—’
‘True,’ interrupted Mr Shark wearily, ‘but she’s married to the King of France, isn’t she? Which makes her non-UK resident, and the statutory provisions about taxation of offshore interests would just make a mockery of the whole scheme. You do see that, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes. If you say so, I suppose . . .’
‘Right, I’ll get on with drawing up the papers and I’ll let you know when they’re ready. Thanks for dropping in. Bye.’
No sooner had the door closed than the phone rang.
‘Yes?’
‘Two callers holding for you, Mr Shark,’ said his assistant. ‘I’ve got Macbeth asking for advice about this proposed takeover bid. He says he can see your point about why it’s a good idea, but he can’t help thinking it’s a bloody, foul and unnatural merger and he reckons he’d have problems sleeping nights. And then there’s Hamlet on the other line, won’t say what it’s about.’
‘I see. Tell Macbeth to be bloody, bold and resolute, and we’re sending him an interim bill. I’ll take the Hamlet call.’
Buzz. Click.
‘Hello. Mr Shark?’
‘Shark here. How’s things? Look, about your inheritance claim—’
‘Actually,’ said Hamlet, ‘I wasn’t calling about that. What I—’
‘I think,’ said Mr Shark firmly, ‘that you have ample grounds for contesting your father’s will, and if I were you I’d crack on and have a damn good go. Now I know you’re fond of your uncle and you don’t want to upset your mother, but really, it’s the principle of the thing. I feel sure that if your father knew what was going on, he’d turn in his grave.’
‘Okay,’ said Hamlet, ‘whatever you think’s best. What I actually wanted to talk to you about—’
‘I mean,’ Mr Shark continued, ‘yes, your scruples do you credit, obviously you’re a very conscientious young man, and I know you’d really prefer to carry on with your academic career rather than go into the family business anyway. Nevertheless I put it to you—’
‘Mr Shark.’
‘Yes?’
‘Shut up,’ said Hamlet, ‘and listen. Through no fault of my own, I’ve somehow managed to get myself trapped in the real world. How do I go about getting back?’
There was a long pause - at Mr Shark’s charging rates, about six hundred pounds’ worth. ‘Mr Shark?’
‘It’s an interesting problem you’ve got there,’ said Mr Shark. ‘Yes, certainly very interesting. All sorts of possibilities for creative tax planning, for a start.’
‘Fine. What can I actually do? I mean, not to put too fine a point on it, I’m falling to bits down here. My nose is currently glued on with Araldite and every time I move my right arm there are little tearing noises.’
‘I sympathise,’ replied Mr Shark, ‘believe me, I do. Unfortunately, we’re into a rather grey area of the law here. I think this may take some time.’
‘Time? How much time?’
‘Immigration law is tricksy stuff,’ Mr Shark replied. ‘The last thing we want to do is rush into anything. We could come badly unstuck if we do.’
‘Mr Shark,’ said Hamlet, controlling himself with difficulty, ‘I’m going to come badly unstuck any bloody minute now. Have you got any suggestions, or would you rather I took my business elsewhere?’
‘Now then,’ said Mr Shark, ‘calm down, let’s not say anything we might later regret. You have my word we’ll start looking into this thing right away, and as soon as there’s any progress I’ll let you know. Happy now?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And,’ Mr Shark went on, ‘in the meantime we will of course need a small payment on account, say twenty thousand to be going on with, so if you’d just send a cheque—’
‘Ah. That might be a problem. You see, I haven’t actually got any money over here. Not as such.’
‘I see.’ Mr Shark leaned back in his chair and scowled at the ceiling. ‘You know, you’re putting me in a very difficult position here.’
‘Really? Your toes have just fallen off too, have they?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mr Shark. ‘I’d love to help, really I would, but our policy as a firm is very strict. Unless we have money up front, there’s very little we can—’
The line went dead. Mr Shark shrugged and replaced the receiver.
‘I don’t know,’ he sighed. ‘Bloody clients.’
The literary equivalent of stacking dynamite against a wall:
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, this is Jane Armitage, I’m afraid I’m not in to take your call right now but if you’d care to leave a message . . .’
‘Hey!’ Regalian shouted into the receiver. ‘Cut that out! I know you’re there, because the line’s been engaged for the last half hour. Hello?’
‘. . . as soon as I return. Thank you. Beeeep.’
Regalian swore under his breath. He hated talking into the bloody machines.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘now listen carefully.This is what you’ve got to do . . .’
Mr Prosser, of Prosser and White Funeral Services Ltd, drew his dressing gown tight around his waist and peered round the door.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Excuse me,’ said Jane, ‘but it did say twenty-four-hour service in the phone book, and it’s rather an emergency.’
Mr Prosser suppressed an inner sigh. Twenty years in corpse disposal had taught him that people who are dead today are almost invariably still dead tomorrow, and frequently still dead the day after. The term ‘emergency’ should not, therefore, have any meaning within the parameters of his profession. Still, bereavement does funny things to people, and the golden rule of bespoke gravemaking is, be sympathetic, even to the nerks and the time-wasters. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Do please come in.’ He removed the chain from the door, and refrained from mentioning the fact that ‘twenty-four-hour service’ was in fact a reference to his answering machine.
‘Thank you ever so much,’ Jane said, having refused a cup of tea. ‘To get straight to the point, I need someone embalmed.’
‘I see,’ said Mr Prosser. ‘And the identity of the sadly departed?’
Jane pointed. ‘Him.’
There is another golden rule of bespoke gravemaking, if anything, even more fundamental than the first. Never be shocked, never allow yourself to be sickened or revolted, never let the punter see that you want to throw up. ‘Quite,’ said Mr Prosser. ‘Might I just point out that the sadly departed would still appear to be alive?’
‘Yes, I know,’ Jane r
eplied wearily. ‘And we did try the hospital first but they threw us out.’ She shuddered from head to foot. ‘I was all right, but he landed sort of awkwardly. We’ve got all the bits in this plastic bag here. Actually, while you’re at it, you might just see if you can’t sort of sew them back on, if that’s all right with you.’
Golden rule, Mr Prosser muttered to himself under his breath, golden rule. ‘Perhaps I’m not explaining myself clearly enough, miss,’ he said. ‘We really do prefer to specialise here in, um, dead people. That’s basically what we’re all about, you see, and your, er, friend here isn’t really all that dead, now is he? Not as such, I mean.’
‘All right,’ said a voice from under the paper bag, ‘let me talk to him. Listen, creep.’
‘Um—’
‘Don’t interrupt. Now, unless you make with the suture and the embalming fluid pretty damn quick, I shall be back here tomorrow. And I shall take this bag off, and I shall strut up and down in front of your shop window stopping passers-by and saying, You don’t want to go in there, the service is absolutely terrible, I mean, just look at me. Now, are you going to co-operate?’
Mr Prosser sat down, closed his eyes and swallowed a couple of times. Then he stood up again. He was twitching slightly, but, apart from that, he was his usual professional self once more.
‘That won’t be necessary, sir,’ he said politely. ‘Now, if you would care to follow me into the, er, if you would care to follow me.’
‘I shall be watching what you do,’ Hamlet went on. ‘And don’t you dare cut any corners, or you’ll regret it. The first suggestion of a bolt through the neck, and I phone Esther Rantzen.’
‘Quite,’ said Mr Prosser. ‘This way, please.’
‘Yes? Wassawant?’
‘It’s Jane here. I got your message. Are—?’
Regalian growled, and switched on his bedside light. ‘For crying out loud, it’s half past two in the morning.’
‘I’ve only just got in. Look, if you’re ready, I can start immediately.’