My Hero

by Tom Holt

  Does it matter? You’re here and, here, you’re real; rather more so than I am, I suppose. What does that make us? Pen pals?

  ‘Jane.’

  My God, he’s talking to me. She pulled herself together, tried not to blush or stare; dammit, I refuse to be sixteen again for anybody. ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s something,’ Regalian said - he was looking at her - ‘I always wanted to ask you. I guess now’s as good a time as any.’

  ‘Okay.’ Jane nodded, kept her voice steady. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘On page 746 of the fourth volume of Wishblades of Pondara,’ Regalian said, ‘there’s an earthquake, remember? I come out of the burning temple, okay, I’ve got sixteen blood-crazed Thargs after me, the tsunami invoked by the Mad Mage is about to take out the whole of downtown T’zpoom with devastating loss of life, the princess is trapped in the ruined castle with revolting Lord Sna’haz and his twelve unspeakable cronies, and what do you make me do? Well?’

  ‘I . . . I can’t remember.’

  ‘You can’t remember,’ Regalian echoed, ominously calm. ‘Fine. Let me refresh your memory. You have me stop dead in the middle of the market place, bloody great big chunks of flying masonry and falling roofbeams missing me by inches - see this scar on my nose? That’s your fault, that is - you make me sit down on a fallen pillar and spend six pages analysing my relationship with my parents. Why was that?’

  Time stood still and nothing happened, except that Jane’s face grew steadily more reminiscent of a high quality sunset (or, if you prefer, a beetroot). Eventually she spoke.

  ‘Wasn’t me.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Wasn’t me. It was my editor. Said you needed more depth and motivation. So I, er, gave you some.’

  ‘In the middle of a fucking earthquake?’ Regalian was staring at her, his mouth open. ‘You stupid bloody woman. I could have been killed. There were people dying, I could have been saving them. And you had me pratting about down there because some guy told you I needed to be a fully rounded human being? Of all the—’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jane whimpered. ‘But I was three weeks behind and there was nowhere else I could fit it in, and . . .’

  Regalian scowled her to silence. ‘Not only that,’ he said. ‘Where did you get off, saying all that about my mother? You never even met my mother. How dare you—?’

  ‘But you haven’t got a mother,’ Jane wailed. ‘I created you. Surely you can see that—’

  ‘What are you gibbering about, woman? What, you think the stork brought me? Hellfire, you’re even sadder than I thought.’ He looked away, as if considering something. ‘Just my luck, eh? All the books by all the authors in all the world, and I have to walk into yours.’

  He bit savagely into his rope, and Jane was glad, briefly, that it was blackcurrant. Compared to the ingratitude of characters, she told herself, serpents’ teeth are about as sharp as traffic bollards.

  Skinner, who had been eavesdropping with a facetious grin on his face, cleared his throat. ‘Hey,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah? What do you want?’

  ‘How much longer are you going to be with those goddamn ropes?’ Skinner demanded. ‘We gotta get out of here.’

  Regalian laughed. There was about as much humour in his laughter as there’s meat in an industrial-grade catering sausage. ‘I wouldn’t worry if I were you. Even when we’re free of all this blasted string, we aren’t going anywhere. I think all the rope and gags were just in case we felt like a snack.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Regalian smiled wanly. ‘Because I’ve been here before,’ he replied. ‘And once seen, never forgotten, believe me.’

  ‘Been here before?’ Jane looked at him, confused. ‘How could you have? I’ve never written anywhere like this.’

  ‘We’re not in a book,’ Regalian answered. ‘Not one specific book, anyway. We’re in lots of books. In fact, this is probably the biggest concentration of fiction anywhere in the whole dimension. Trust me, after you’ve been here any length of time, you’ll be pleased to be in on the end of the world. Probably that’s what she was thinking of,’ he added ruefully.

  Titania sniffed. ‘All right, Mister Clever,’ she muttered. ‘So where—?’

  ‘I was coming to that. Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Slushpile.’

  Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

  Listen.

  Listen carefully. You hear it? Good. Listen to it for any length of time, and you’ll realise how easily that noise could come to fill the whole universe.

  Scribblescribblescritchscritchtippytippytaptap

  That, as if you didn’t know, is the sound of people writing novels. In every street in every town in every country in every continent on every planet in every solar system in every galaxy in every one of an infinity of alternative universes, there’s at least one would-be novelist out word hunting tonight. The brash, the earnest, the very sad, the hopeful, the hopeless, the divinely inspired and the cruelly deceived, those with talent and those with none - is there anybody in all creation who doesn’t believe, deep in the secret part of his soul, that he hasn’t got at least one blockbusting smash bestseller lurking inside him like an eighty-thousand-word tapeworm bursting to get out? Tales of adventure, tales of true love, thrillers and chillers with chainsaws and gibbets, smut, spit and sawdust, confused lust in Islington and glossy lust in Tinseltown, Martians and monsters, clogs, shawls and cobblestones, a million different versions of the Holy Grail (in the trade they call it Cup and Sorcery), every permutation on every theme and not one of them knowingly undertold. Here’s a chartered actuary in Cheltenham dreaming of lost Nazi gold, there’s a sentient silicone isotope from the Teacup Nebula carefully plotting out its own weird version of the universal Tolkien derivative. The very chair you sit on probably has the first three hundred pages of its Great Furniture Novel tucked down behind its cushions. So much activity, so much blood, tears, toil and sweat - dear God, so much raw inspiration and uncut ability - and 99.999999999999999999999% of it futile and in vain.

  Every publishing house has a cellar, warehouse or disused nuclear bunker where the unsolicited manuscripts go. They call it the Slushpile, and it makes a cemetery look like Mardi Gras. At least the graveyard residents have lived, even if very horribly or very briefly. The Slushpile hasn’t. Try to imagine a more dreadful place than this. Can you? You can? You need professional help as a matter of urgency.

  And in every novel in the pile, characters; imaginary men and women, pink rabbits and cuddly bears, trolls, treens and sentient silicone isotopes who’ve all been arbitrarily summoned into existence and left here to rot. And here’s a charming thought for you; they outnumber the population of Reality by God knows how many to one. Maybe they brood. Quite possibly, they feel a sense of grievance. For good reason, the walls of the Slushpile are thick.

  ‘Yes,’ Regalian went on, ‘I was here once. She sent me here. I was lucky, I was only in here for eighteen months. The others . . .’ His words tailed off, and he sat staring for a minute and a half without speaking. ‘Here’s one bit of good advice,’ he said eventually. ‘You two. Whatever you do, don’t tell any of the inmates that you’re - you know.’

  ‘No. What?’

  ‘The W-word,’ Regalian hissed. ‘Rhymes with lighters, fighters and blighters. People who do the W thing aren’t popular down here. You’d last about as long as a side of beef in a piranha tank.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Skinner, ‘I got you. Thanks for the warning.’

  ‘Whiters?’

  ‘Shut up.’ Regalian took a deep breath and set about the remaining strands of rope, pausing occasionally to gag and spit. To judge by his expression, even home-made cakes bought at village flower shows never tasted this bad.

  ‘Right,’ Hamlet said. ‘Now I think I see. If she’s an agent—’

  Titania nodded. ‘They’d follow her to the ends of the earth; anything, just for the hope of a chance. And there must be—’

  ‘Bill
ions of them,’ Regalian confirmed. ‘All of them baying for blood. Instant holocaust; just find some way for them to cross over the line into Reality—’

  ‘The way we’ve been doing . . .’

  Regalian spat out hemp, and tugged. The ropes gave way. He fell forwards, picked himself up and began scouring the ground for a sharp-edged stone. ‘Personally,’ he said. ‘I’d be inclined to get out of here, if at all possible. Suggestions, anyone?’

  There followed a long, embarrassed silence, during which Regalian sawed rope with his sharp stone. Eventually Skinner cleared his throat. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d become the spokesman; he just knew that he was. In the absence of relevant previous experience, vocational training or a copy of So You Want To Be A Spokesman?, he took a deep breath and charged in.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘no offence, but . . .’ Having signposted, as if with neon lights and a three-month advertising campaign, the fact that he was about to say something offensive, he dried up. Obligingly, Regalian filled in the gap.

  ‘I’m the hero,’ he prompted. ‘Why don’t I get off my butt and do something? Yes?’

  ‘Mphm.’ Skinner nodded. ‘I mean, that’s not to say you haven’t done an awful lot already. You have.’

  ‘Thank you for noticing.’

  ‘But . . .’ Another deep breath. ‘Shit, this is your damn dimension. I’ve been in it thirty-six years and I haven’t a clue how it works. She’s no use. He’s no use . . .’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Titania acidly. ‘Which she were you referring to?’

  ‘Which leaves you. Also,’ Skinner added, feeling the argument might lend weight, ‘there’s that crazy broad who’s planning to blow up the planet. I mean, if stopping her isn’t hero work, what is?’

  Regalian nodded. ‘Point taken,’ he said. ‘Trouble is, I’ve got absolutely nothing in the way of a plan. Usually I have. Not this time.’ He sat down and put his head in his hands. ‘Pretty strange feeling, actually,’ he continued. ‘Being a hero, you come to expect it; you know, the flash of inspiration, the perfectly timed brainwave. When suddenly it isn’t there, you feel . . .’ He waved his hands vaguely. ‘Disorientated. It’s like happening to glance down and noticing that someone’s stolen your trousers while you were wearing them. Anyway, the fact is, I don’t know what to do. Hence the request for ideas.’

  ‘I know what to do,’ Titania said.

  ‘I mean,’ Regalian went on, ‘there must be something. There’s always something. Doesn’t matter how hare-brained it is. If a lifetime in the heroism business has taught me anything, it’s that the dafter the plan, the more likely it is to succeed. But dammit, I can’t even think of a sensible idea. I’m going to get a complex about it in a minute.’

  ‘I know what to—’

  Skinner rubbed his chin. ‘Maybe the idea’s there and you just can’t recognise it,’ he said. ‘I remember when I was writing the big scene in North Of The Pecos . . .’

  ‘I said I know what to—’

  ‘Quiet!’ Skinner turned, scowling. ‘How can the poor guy concentrate with you chattering away? You have no idea—’

  ‘But I do,’ Titania snarled, ‘that’s the point. If only you’d listen.’

  Regalian looked up. ‘Figures,’ he said. ‘I mean - no disrespect - she must be with us for some reason. I reckoned she was a love interest, but I think I was mistaken there. I’m morally certain she’s not the comic relief, and there’s no luggage to carry or washing to do, so—’

  ‘Hey!’ Titania glowered at him. ‘Just listen to yourself, will you?’

  ‘I thought we were meant to be listening to you.’

  Skinner shrugged. ‘Changed her mind,’ he said.

  ‘Woman’s prerogative,’ Hamlet added.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Now she’s offended.’

  ‘Notoriously thin-skinned, women.’

  ‘That’s why they’re so unreliable, I guess.’

  ‘Not like us.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘HEY!’

  ‘I hate it when they get all shrill,’ Hamlet muttered. ‘So undignified.’

  ‘Better hear her out. I suppose.’

  ‘Might as well. Otherwise it’ll be floods of tears.’

  ‘The tears aren’t so bad, it’s when they stamp their feet—’

  ‘WILL YOU THREE CLOWNS JUST SHUT UP!’ Titania suggested. ‘And you,’ she said, rounding on Skinner, ‘you ought to know better. Those two, Captain Machismo and Mister Get-thee-to-a-nunnery-but-first-darn-my-socks, they’re heroes, they can’t help it. You’ve got no excuse.’

  Skinner smirked. ‘Product of my time,’ he said. ‘Very much a ’fifties thing. Where I come from, women stay home and jump on chairs if they see a mouse.’

  ‘You were right,’ Hamlet whispered. ‘She isn’t a love interest.’

  ‘That’s okay, then.’

  ‘You’re telling me,’ Skinner said. ‘I was worried. Sorry, you were saying something?’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Jane interrupted. ‘This isn’t right. All this crass male stuff ’s a bit sudden, isn’t it? Where’s it all coming from?’

  ‘It’s this rotten place,’ Regalian groaned. He was deliberately looking away, not catching anyone’s eye. ‘All these horrible books we’re surrounded by. It’s making us revert to type. The longer we stay here, the more cliché-ridden we become. That’s why it’s so important that we get out of here quick. If we stay here much longer, we’ll just be cardboard cut-outs. Sorry,’ he said, turning back to Titania. ‘Boys’ talk.You were about to suggest something.’

  Titania, who now understood, nodded. ‘It’s really quite simple when you think about it. All we’ve got to do is get a message to the other side. Reality. Find someone who can write us out of here.’

  Jane raised an eyebrow. ‘Come again?’ she said.

  ‘That means you,’ Titania replied. ‘Think about it. You’re working on a book right now, yes?’

  Jane nodded. ‘Hopelessly overdue,’ she said sadly. ‘Deadline like yesterday. If I ever get out of here, I’m going to be in serious trouble.’

  ‘Great!’ Titania clapped her hands together in joy. ‘So if you deliver a completed manuscript, it’ll get rushed straight off and into production?’

  Jane shrugged. ‘I suppose so. But how does that help?’

  ‘Easy.’ Titania was pacing up and down, excited. ‘Get someone else to write the book for you, with us in it as characters. It’s as simple as being lifted out of here by transporter beam.’

  ‘Yes, but who . . . ?’

  Suddenly, Regalian began to grin. ‘Nice idea,’ he said. ‘For a girl,’ he added. To do him justice, he tried to stop the words coming out, but he couldn’t. ‘Let’s just hurry it along, though, shall we, before I say something I’ll really regret?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jane, slowly and loudly. ‘But who?’

  ‘Easy,’ Regalian answered. ‘A ghost writer.’

  A valid point Regalian has there, because writers never die.

  Oh sure, there comes a day when they cease drinking and stop moving altogether, and after a while they start to whiff a bit and go all soft and squidgy, and unless something is done about it the public health people start sending you snotty letters; but the fact remains, writers enjoy a vaguely defined immortality. So long as their books survive, so do they.

  Dead and alive, as it were. Or undead, if you prefer.

  You can see where this is leading . . .

  Cautiously, Dracula lifted the lid and peered out.

  God, he muttered to himself, I hate Reality. It’s cold, the satin in the coffin feels like sandpaper, and horrible people from Yorkshire peer down and stare at you like you were some sort of freak . . . Wouldn’t be seen dead in a place like this.

  Quite.

  The indignity of it all. Bundled back into his coffin without so much as a quick nibble at a soft white neck, then bumped and jostled about for hours in what he gathered was something called the Postal System, and
left somewhere. God knows where. A less even-tempered bloke might get quite angry.

  Dracula, however, had always made a practice of not letting the sun go down on his wrath (or, for obvious reasons, on his anything); accordingly he’d taken a deep breath, thought a happy thought, sniffed for sunlight (all clear) and thought the screws out of the woodwork. And now here he was; a little bruised, a trifle battered, but all in one piece and ready for a hard day’s night. He pushed aside the lid and scrambled out, snagging his cape on a splinter.

  Because he’d never been in a sorting office before, he hadn’t a clue what the place was. All he knew was that it felt sinister. The nearest he’d ever been to something like this was the crypt under the castle chapel back in dear old Transylvania. Crypts he felt at home with; cool, dark places with somewhere to put your feet up and a nice selection of packed lunches. This was different. There was a malevolence here he couldn’t begin to understand. Gave him the creeps.

  Buck up, he told himself. None of this moping. Let’s bustle about and try and find something useful, like a door or a window.

  And so he began his misguided tour of the building. He walked past the letter racks, the parcel shelves, the recorded delivery section . . .

  The dead letter cupboard . . .

  He glanced down.

  COUNT VLAD DRACULA

  To be held until called for.

  He frowned. It wasn’t a totally unfamiliar concept. Given his habit of going to sleep for long periods of time, he would often leave himself little notes - the deeds to the castle are in the safe, the back door key is on the hook in the scullery, the bin men call on Wednesdays, that sort of thing - and lodge them with lawyers or bank managers marked Not to be opened for fifty years. Presumably, this was one of those letters. Maybe - with any luck - it might tell him what he was doing here, and how he could get home again. He slid a finger under the flap and tore.

  Dear Count Dracula,

  I was wondering if you could help. My name’s Jane Armitage, and I’m a writer. It’s a long story, practically a trilogy, but here I am, stuck in Fiction, and there you are stuck in Real Life. So, you help me and maybe I can do something for you. How does that sound?