by Tom Holt
‘Don’t want any,’ he mumbled, turning his head away. Outside, they were emptying the septic tank. Chances were that it wasn’t the view that was monopolising his attention.
‘It’s kedgeree,’ Martha said. ‘And bread-and-butter pudding for afters.’
‘It’s always kedgeree and bread-and-butter pudding,’ Kevin replied; and if this statement wasn’t entirely accurate, it was close enough.
Martha advanced, walking softly. ‘What’s the matter?’ she said.
‘Oh, nothing,’ Kevin replied. ‘I’ve messed up the computer, the whole world’s a complete shambles, I don’t even know what harm I’ve done and when Dad gets home He’ll be so angry it’ll make what He did to Adam and Eve look like an awards ceremony.’
‘But that’s not it, is it?’
‘No,’ Kevin admitted.
‘She hasn’t rung back, has she?’
‘Who? Oh, you mean that female mortal, the one from the computer place. No, she hasn’t.’ Kevin’s voice wobbled like a tightrope walker in a hurricane. ‘Not,’ he went on, ‘that I was expecting her to. I mean, what’d she want to go phoning me for? It’s not as if anybody in their right mind’d want to talk to me. ’Specially not . . .’ His voice trailed away, like the attention of a delegate on the fifth day of a conference, and he made a sort of burping noise that had nothing to do with indigestion.
‘Now then,’ Martha said. Not tactful to point out that her not ringing back had probably avoided a potential disaster that would have relegated whatever else Kevin had done, no matter how cataclysmic, to a quarter of an inch on the back page under the Australian football results. She tried, briefly, to imagine what Himself would have said if He’d come home to meet a radiantly happy Kevin nervously stammering that there was someone he’d like Him to meet.
No, no more of that sort of thing.
Once had been quite enough . . .
She felt her face grow warm, and turned it away in case Kevin should see the blush. ‘You’ve got to keep your strength up,’ she said. ‘There’s ice cream with the bread-and-butter pudding.’
‘No thanks.’
‘Or custard.You like custard.’
Kevin said some words about bread-and-butter pudding that had probably never been used in Heaven before; where did he learn them? Martha wondered. She replied with some mild rebuke; her mind was elsewhere. No, that sort of thing was definitely not on. Perish the thought. She shrugged, and closed the door after her.
The boy’s growing up, she reflected as she made her way down the stairs to the laundry room; a disturbing thought. He wasn’t supposed to grow up. It had been part of the deal, in fact. It was a good bet that this sudden and unexpected contact with mortals was behind it; after all, a lad his age, talking to a girl for the very first time, it was only to be expected. Next thing you know, he’ll be thinking about all sorts of things.
Like, for example; whatever became of his mother?
As she folded a towel, Martha shuddered. It really wouldn’t do for Kevin to start asking that sort of question. Mind you, it was a miracle it hadn’t occurred to him already. Very much a miracle; but in a place where everything from the plumbing to the immersion heaters works by miracle - so cheap, so environmentally friendly - you take such things for granted. If only everything in life was as reliable as a miracle.
Now if she could have her time over again—
Yes, but she couldn’t, so no point worrying about it. There was no way Kevin would ever work it out for himself. That had been taken care of nearly two thousand years ago; no reason why it should suddenly change now.
Unless—
She dropped the towel; it folded itself anyway (My God! A miracle!). Unless, of course, one of the things Kevin had thrown out of kilter was her own rather shamefaced little miracle, the one that prevented a boy asking an obvious question. The very thought was enough to make her blood run as cold as a bath in a cheap hotel. No reason to suppose that it should, of course; except that here was Kevin, noticing girls. Why now? Compared with what they’d been like a few decades ago, girls in the fag-end of the twentieth century were scarcely worth noticing. Drab, featureless, uninspiring the lot of ’em; none of them the sort of creature you’d accept a second-hand apple from. Compared to the quality of girls they’d had in her young day—
Well, quite. Enough said about that. The plain fact of the matter was, if this mess didn’t get sorted out as quick as ninepence, there could well be trouble, and then what? Another flood, maybe? Martha sincerely hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Thousands of years it’d taken before they’d got rid of that horrible musty smell, not to mention the damp getting into the walls. And, of course, the mass devastation and loss of life, though it got a bit technical when you started trying to work out the ramifications of that particular line of thought. It was an option He might well consider, nevertheless; not to mention a first-rate excuse for winding up humanity and starting again with a relatively clean sheet. Would He go that far, just to cover up one little scandal?
No need to think too long about that one.
She left the rest of the bedlinen to fold itself - it was much better at it than she was - and hurried back down to the staff canteen. Fortunately, nobody was using the phone, and she still had enough small change.
From the KIC helpline number, no reply. To be precise, that high-pitched keening noise that means the line’s been cut off. Frowning, she tried the main number, and got a recorded message, Sorry we can’t take your call right now but we’ve quite unexpectedly ceased to exist. If you’d like to leave a message for the liquidators, please speak after the tone.
Martha didn’t swear; but the way she said ‘Drat!’ would have had your average Hell’s Angel scowling at her and demanding that she wash her mouth out with soap. The only little flicker of light she’d seen so far, snuffed out. Back precisely where she’d started.
Which meant she’d have to think of something else.
Easier said than done. She was, in all modesty, reasonably bright, but solutions to insoluble problems weren’t the sort of thing she could pluck out of thin air at a moment’s notice. Intelligence wasn’t quite enough. There had to be a certain element of luck as well; say ninety-nine per cent, in round figures. For her to fix this dreadful muddle all by herself, without any help or proper facilities; it’d be—
She smiled. Then she went to the counter and asked for a cup of tea. The duty angel nodded and filled the kettle from the tap. She said a brief prayer. At once, steam rose from the spout and the lid rattled. The angel poured a cupful and handed it over. Long ago, the management had realised that what worked for wine at the wedding at Cana works for tea as well, resulting in a substantial saving on the staff budget. So quick; so efficient; so cheap; so environmentally friendly. From where she was standing, Martha could see through into the kitchen, where someone had fridgemagneted up the usual witty and encouraging notices, such as:YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE INFALLIBLE TO
WORK HERE BUT IT HELPS
and:ANGELS DO IT IMMACULATELY
(that one always made her wince) and:MY OTHER SON’S A MESSIAH
(one of these days He’s going to see that, and then there’ll be trouble) and:MIRACLES WE DO IMMEDIATELY THE POSSIBLE TAKES A LITTLE LONGER
Yes. For her to fix this dreadful muddle all by herself, without any help or proper facilities, would be an absolute by-Our-Lady miracle.
‘Well now,’ said a voice in the darkness, ‘this is cosy.’
The diverse assortment of creatures confined in the cage somewhere within earshot of the voice all began talking at once. What they actually said scarcely merits recording; it was a confused medley of variations on the themes Where am I? and Let me out! The voice waited until they’d all railed themselves hoarse, and then continued.
‘I’ll bet,’ it said, ‘you’re wondering why you’re here.’
‘I’m not,’ growled Artofel. ‘And you can stop trying to be so damn mysterious, as well. I know perfectly well that this is
the staff toilet on Level Thirty-Six; I’d recognise that dripping cistern anywhere. And any minute now I’ll recognise your voice too, and when I do there’s going to be some changes made to the holiday roster that’ll make you wish you’d never been damned.’
‘Oh,’ said the voice. ‘Drat. In that case, I might as well switch the lights on.’
A faint click; and the meagre glow of an administration-issue sixty-watt bulb diluted the shadows. In particular, it illuminated four plump middle-aged males and one plump middle-aged female, all dressed in smart executive businesswear and wearing executive spectacles, sitting on lavatory seats in a row of cubicles.
‘You,’ Artofel said contemptuously. ‘I might have known.’
‘Hello,’ replied the female. ‘Yes, it’s us. And before you get too cocky and start yelling for help, don’t bother, because nobody’ll come.’
‘I put a notice on the door saying Out of Order,’ explained the male to her immediate left. ‘Amazing how effective that is.’
Artofel sniffed angrily. ‘So that’s what it’s all been about, is it?’ he said. ‘All this aggravation, spectral warriors roaming up and down breaking all the rules, harassment of civilians, conspiracy against the Management—’
‘Who isn’t here,’ the female interrupted, smirking.
‘What?’
‘Not here. Gone. One of our Supreme Beings is missing—’
‘Two, actually,’ a male demon pointed out. ‘The Boss and Junior. Which theoretically leaves Uncle Ghost, but so what? Compared to him in the usefulness stakes, the proverbial chocolate fireguard’s a nuclear-powered Swiss Army knife.’
‘Say that again,’ Artofel muttered. ‘The Old Man and Junior are—’
‘Gone. That’s right. Been gone a while now. There are various theories,’ the female went on. ‘Buffy here reckons that science has finally caught up with Them and proved once and for all They don’t exist. Reckons there was a documentary about it on telly, and so it must be true. Chubby thinks They’ve got religion and joined some obscure sect in the Nevada desert. My hypothesis is that He’s staged His own death, possibly by falling off his yacht and drowning or something equally jejune, and they’ve done a flit with the pension fund money. In any case, it doesn’t matter; the fact is they’re not here. Which means that, so long as we don’t hang about, we’ve got a once-in-an-everlasting-lifetime chance to put through this perfectly wonderful scheme of ours and have it all tied up so tight that even if They do come back, there’ll be nothing They can do about it. So . . .’
‘Excuse me.’
The female looked to see who’d spoken. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Excuse me,’ Maria repeated, ‘but where is this?’
The five demons looked at each other and tried not to giggle. It was left to Artofel to answer the question.
‘Hell?’ Maria repeated.
‘That’s right,’ the female said. ‘Don’t worry unduly about that, though. Like in Monopoly, you’re in Jail but Just Visiting.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘You’re going to die, of course,’ she added, ‘but what happens to you after that is between you, your personal codes of ethics and your own individual governing body. I don’t know offhand who actually does decide where bad paintings go when they die, although I’ve heard the Birmingham City Art Gallery plausibly suggested.’
Inside the cage there was gloomy silence. Artofel scowled ineffectually. Maria sat thoughtful and rather depressed. The Prime Minister, having discovered by exhaustive research that there was nothing inside the cage to climb up and jump off, was sitting in a corner and huddling.
‘And in any case,’ the female went on, ‘we can’t snuff you out quite yet, because we haven’t got the complete set. The last of you’s due to be delivered any minute now, and then we can get started. While we’re waiting, though, I thought it’d be only polite to say hello and frighten you into little quivering heaps.’ She beamed like a vampire aunt. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve done any frightening,’ she explained. ‘I do miss it so.’
Maria turned her head as best she could in the confined space of the cage. ‘Excuse me,’ she said to Artofel. ‘I don’t know who you are, but you seem to know what’s going on. Could you possibly explain? I have actually met some of these people before, but . . .’
‘Delighted,’ Artofel replied grimly. ‘I am Artofel, Duke of Hell. These five degenerates are also Dukes of Hell; to be precise, they’re the Arts, Leisure and Libraries SubCommittee, which in practice means they’re too devious or useless to be trusted with a proper job but they can’t be sacked because they’ve got seniority.’
‘I resent that,’ said the male demon referred to as Buffy. ‘We fulfil a valuable role in the artistic and cultural life of everlasting damnation.’
Artofel snorted. ‘Ignore him,’ he said. ‘All they actually do is, twice a year they take a library trolley round with all the latest Jeffrey Archers and Lynda La Plantes. Waste of time, though, because any punter who’s been evil enough to deserve that sort of thing gets issued with a copy as soon as it comes out. Different department.’
‘I see,’ Maria lied. ‘You’re the ones who wanted us to sell you our souls or something.’
The male demon called Bunty sniggered; the female broadened her insufferable smile. ‘If only it were that simple,’ she said. ‘No, my poor dears, it’s a bit more involved than that. Shall I explain?’
‘No,’ said Artofel.
‘Very well then. The point is, you three and a fourth one you’ll be meeting any minute now are unique. For a while now you’ve been trotting around quite happily in human bodies, but you aren’t human.We’re designing an improved Mark Two human to sell to alternative realities - ’
‘Damn fine commercial opportunity there,’ Buffy muttered. ‘Dreadful waste not to exploit it.’
‘ - and so all we’ve got to do is synthesise the four of you, refine the result and start cloning. We have all the facilities here.’
‘Really? In a staff bog?’
The female nodded. ‘Apparently you’re overestimating the technical difficulties, Artie dear. We’ve got the blender from the Level Eight canteen and the spare photocopier from Archives, and the rest’s just a matter of imagination and insulating tape. Excuse me, but why is your silent colleague trying to hang upside down from the cage roof?’
‘He’s a lemming,’ Bunty explained. ‘I know it’s like a fear of heights, only in reverse. He’ll let go in a min—Ah, just as I thought. Happy landings!’
Artofel growled menacingly. ‘You do realise that you’re never going to get away with this,’ he said. ‘I mean, quite apart from the whole scheme being completely impractical and doomed to failure, do you honestly believe that when - I say when, not if - the Old Man finds out what you’ve been doing He’s just going to put it down to fiendish high spirits and tell you not to do it again?’ He shook his head, in the process biffing Maria on the nose and head-butting the Prime Minister. ‘You five won’t even be history. You’ll be dogma.’
The female laughed musically. ‘We shall see,’ she said. ‘Or at least, you three won’t, but we will. Chubby, do you think you could possibly find out what’s keeping number four? Time’s going on, you know. It’s not like Squad Three to be late.’
‘Caught in traffic?’ a demon speculated.
‘Excuse me,’ Maria said.
The five demons looked at her. This didn’t disconcert her too badly - you get used to that sort of thing if you’ve been a painting for any appreciable length of time. She cleared her throat.
‘Excuse me, but I’ve just realised why none of this is going to work.’
Another trill of silvery laughter from the female demon. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘this isn’t going to help, you know. Playing for time might be an effective tactic where you come from, but down here time really doesn’t have an awful lot of meaning.’
‘No but seriously,‘ Maria said. ‘And I’ll tell you for why. Your whole scam’s b
ased on one basic error. Sorry,’ she added, ‘but there it is.’
‘Oh yes? And perhaps you’d be terribly sweet and let us in on the big secret?’
Maria looked thoughtful. ‘It’s not really a secret,’ she said. ‘More sort of staring you in the face. Just ask yourselves: why do supreme beings have mortals in the first place?’
The demons beamed tolerantly. ‘Atmosphere,’ Buffy said.
“Like potted palms in dentists’ waiting rooms,’ Chubby added. ‘You don’t need them, but it makes the place look a bit less sparse.’
‘You’re sure about that?’ Maria said. ‘I’m not. Be reasonable. Mortals aren’t particularly decorative; if all you wanted was to make the place look nice, you’d have lots of tasteful ornaments instead, like me. And as pets, they’re a dead loss; they aren’t exactly environmentally friendly either, Lord knows. If you wanted something to be the equivalent of a cuddly kitten or even pondweed in a fishtank, you wouldn’t bother with human beings, you’d just stick with nice sensible harmless animals.’
‘Like lemmings,’ Artofel muttered under his breath.
‘Exactly,’ Maria agreed. ‘And mortals aren’t there to add interest and excitement to the business of running a cosmos; after all, that’s what His Majesty’s loyal opposition’s there for - you lot and this gentleman here whose name escapes me for the moment.The forces of evil and so forth. And the last possible reason for having mortals is to get anything useful done, because they don’t, by and large. If it’s that sort of thing you’re after, you’d have a race of robots or something similar. But instead,’ she went on, ‘there are mortals. Have you ever stopped to wonder why?’
The female was still beaming; but the one called Bunty was wearing a puzzled frown. It suited him about as well as a full set of baroque armour would suit Kate Moss, but the important thing was that it was there. ‘What are you driving at?’ he asked.
‘Think,’ Maria replied. ‘The only possible motive for infesting your cosmos with silly, awkward, destructive mortals is so that you, the supreme being, can feel superior. I may not be all that hot on the perfection front, you say, as you face yourself in the shaving mirror every morning, but at least I’m better than that lot down there. It gives you a nice warm glow deep down in your ineffability. It makes you feel good. After all, you’re an omnipotent creator; if that’s not the reason, why did you make Homo sapiens such an utter mess? So,’ she continued sweetly, ‘don’t you think that an improved version of humanity, a version that’s not a seething mass of design faults and built-in shortcomings, is likely to be something of a drug on the market?’