In Your Dreams (25 page)

Long day. When he got home, he'd have a leisurely bath and an early night, because – because it was only yesterday that he'd been trapped in the dungeons of the Fey, with two people he'd somehow resigned himself to never seeing again. He thought about that.
Probably a good thing
, he told himself,
that I can do that, it's probably a knack or a survival instinct. Soldiers in war must be able to do it, when their friends are suddenly killed in the middle of a battle.

What if I were to quit? What could Mr Tanner actually do to me that'd be worse than this? Turn me into something nasty and inhuman? Seems to me I'm doing a pretty good job of that on my own.

His hand, Paul realised, was in his jacket pocket, and had found something: a matchbox. He wondered what on Earth it was doing there, then remembered; it seemed so long ago now, the day he'd sat on the funny little dragon, and Mr Tanner's mum had scooped the little red jewel out of the poor dead bugger's brains.
It shows you stuff you can't normally see
, she'd told him.
If you practise, you can learn to see useful things. Otherwise, it just shows you your own true love, so it's a bit wasted on you.

Nearly five-thirty – he ought to be making a move. But he slid the matchbox open and took out the stone. It lay on his palm, glowing faintly red, then green, like a small piece of gravel from the planet Krypton.
If I practise
, he told himself,
I'll learn to see useful things. Otherwise—

The stone was looking back at him; a neat trick, for something with no eyes. He could feel it, scanning him, downloading his thoughts, deciding something—

Where do you want to go today?

Paul sat up a little bit straighter. ‘I'd like to see something useful, please,' he said.

The stone grew, from a loose chipping to a potato to a basketball to a boulder that filled all the space between floor and ceiling, until it was so big he couldn't see it any more. The green glow was warm, and crackled softly with static.
Please wait.

I'd like to see something useful
, he thought.
I'd like to see if Monika and Benny are all right. I'd like to see why touching Melze hurts so much. I'd like to see what I've become, and why that bloody bicycle's threatening to kill me. I'd like to see why my parents went off to Florida without me, and if you happen to do winning lottery numbers, that'd be pretty useful too.

The green light went black; so black that Paul thought for a moment that he was back in the dungeon. Before he could work up a really good head of panic, however, light seeped in from the edges, crawled and trickled inwards in white swirls and worm-casts, until the only black left was letters on a page of writing.

Chimeras for Dummies
, it read.
Chapter One. Big, scary monsters with teeth, and why they're sometimes bad news.

‘Thank you so much,' Paul muttered, closing his hand round the stone. The writing vanished, the world came back, and he put the stone away in the matchbox and closed the lid.

Chapter Eight

T
he chimera people turned up at nine-fifteen; two solid, grey-haired, double-chinned men and a thin, elegant woman, who wanted to know how to keep fabulous winged monsters out of the ventilation shafts of their new leisure complex. Paul smiled, tried to look like he knew what a chimera was, and said, ‘Chicken wire.' That seemed to satisfy the clients, who thanked him and went away again. Easy peasy.

And that was it; nothing to do till lunchtime. Nothing to do except sit behind his desk and wait for something to happen.

It didn't take long for Paul to realise that he'd misjudged being chased by goblins, tortured by the Fey, threatened by bicycles and sent to the next world for the petty-cash float. None of them were fun, by any means, but they were all a whole lot better than being bored to death. He didn't dare leave the office or read the paper or get out a pack of cards and play patience, for fear that someone would come in and find him. If he went to Christine or Julie and confessed that he had nothing to do, there was every chance that they'd tell Mr Tanner, who could be relied on to find him something truly horrible to occupy himself with. If Sophie had still been there, of course, they could have had one of their brittle, fragmented conversations; but she wasn't. He had the use of a telephone, but he couldn't think of anybody who'd want to talk to him.

This is stupid
, he told himself;
this is my lifespan, something I'll never get again, being frittered away like it's not worth anything
. In desperation, he dragged down the office-procedures manual and opened it at random –

Mountains, Movement of:
It is the responsibility of the individual practitioner, not the firm, to make certain that all necessary planning consents are in place before mountains are moved in accordance with clients' instructions. Your attention is specifically directed to approval of reserved matters (access, environmental issues, landscaping &c) which may need to be resolved before work can be commenced. Indemnities should be obtained in advance from the client in respect of curses, blood feuds &c arising from the displacement of troll and goblin colonies caused by mountain relocation. Any buried treasure, abandoned dragon hoards, lost dwarf cities, petroleum, natural gas and other mineral resources uncovered during the removal process remain the property of JWW, not the individual practitioner. In the event that mountain removal awakes a nameless evil from its slumber in the bowels of the earth, it is your responsibility to ensure that the firm's insurers are informed at the earliest possible opportunity.

The hell with it
, Paul thought.
If they fire me, so much the better. If Mr Tanner turns me into an earwig, I'll be better off. Earwigs don't have to put up with this sort of
—

‘Mr Carpenter.' He hadn't heard her come in. He dropped the book on the desk and it closed with a snap. ‘I hope I'm not disturbing you.'

Paul shook his head and smiled feebly. ‘No, really,' he said. ‘Um, what can I do for you?'

As usual, Countess Judy looked completely different from how she'd looked the day before. Today, she was tall, long and almost painfully thin; her hair was bright silver, to match her eyes, and flowed down over her shoulders like lava from an ice volcano. She wore eight rings on her fingers, each ring silver and studded with pale jewels. ‘Yesterday you were asking about the possibility of taking action to rescue Mr Shumway and your car. At that time I told you that there was nothing we could do. On reflection, I believe there is a procedure that might be worth trying.'

That was different. Paul sat up; the palms of his hands were itching, and he could feel his heart beating. ‘Right,' he said, ‘that's great. What do you want me to do?'

The Countess's forehead clouded a little. ‘I appreciate your offer, Mr Carpenter,' she said, ‘but in this instance I hardly feel that it would be appropriate for you to be directly involved. What I have in mind involves the use of intermediaries, to negotiate a settlement with the dissidents.'

‘Oh,' Paul said; and then he thought,
Better still. In fact, bloody wonderful, someone else'll have to go and I won't.
‘Absolutely,' he said. ‘Great idea.'

‘However,' the Countess went on, ‘in light of your wish to be involved, you may care to assist in the overall coordination of the project. Unless,' she added, glancing quickly at the closed book on Paul's desk, ‘there are other matters that require your attention.'

‘Nothing that can't wait,' Paul replied crisply. ‘I mean, I saw those chimera people earlier today, so that's all done and dusted; and Me— Ms Horrocks can do the banking on her own if I'm not back in time to give her a hand.'

‘Splendid,' Countess Judy said. She stood up, and Paul couldn't help but notice what a perfectly composed picture she made, framed by the doorway behind her. Instinct, presumably. ‘In that case, I'll trouble you to arrange an initial meeting with the intermediaries. The address and contact details are in the file.' What file?
Oh
, Paul realised,
that file
: the one on the desk that wasn't there ten seconds ago. ‘Please report to me as soon as you've made contact.'

When she'd gone, Paul picked up the file and pulled out a sheaf of papers, neatly held together with a treasury tag. The first thing he came to was a blank sheet of headed notepaper; rather grubby, crumpled and carefully smoothed flat.

EKD AGENCIES

– followed by an address in Bermondsey; a factory or warehouse, by the look of it. There was also a phone number. He braced himself and dialled the number. No reply.

Next in the bundle was a handwritten note; very small, cramped, pointy writing, done with an incredibly finenibbed pen. Mostly it was dates and numbers, but at the bottom were a few sentences. It cost Paul much squinting and the foundations of a world-class headache before he could make them out;

Do not telephone; personal visit essential. Ask for the boss, who will not be there. Extremely suspicious, secretive, nervous and annoying. Mostly lies, in any case. Wednesday.

Apart from that, the bundle was mostly old JWW invoices, marked ‘Paid': for services; various matters; legal and financial advice; emergency supplement 25 per cent; interim account; for the attention of Derek. The only other thing was a dainty little Victorian silver locket on a chain, loose in the bottom of the file.

Bermondsey
, Paul thought;
personal visit essential. Well, why not? Anything to get out of the office.

He was just walking through the front door into the street when a voice called to him.

‘Oh no,' he said. ‘Not you. Hey, you're on duty, you shouldn't leave reception.'

Mr Tanner's mum grinned at him. Today she was wearing brunette, with enormous eyes and the sweetest little rosebud mouth you ever— Paul turned away, scarlet as a bus.

‘That's what you think, lover,' she replied. ‘Velma's going to cover for me while I'm out. Aren't you, dear?'

Paul looked past her into the office. An identical doe-eyed, rosebud-mouthed brunette was waving at him from behind the desk. ‘She's hoping that nice young bike messenger's going to call again. She's got this thing about men in crash helmets. You see,' Mr Tanner's mum added in a broad whisper, ‘compared to her I'm practically normal. Come on. Where are we going?'

‘All right,' Paul hissed. ‘But I'm not going out with you looking like
that
.'

Mr Tanner's mum glanced down. ‘What, you mean horizontal stripes? Everyone says I can carry them off, but if you'd rather—'

‘Not the clothes,' Paul growled. ‘You know perfectly well ...'

‘Fine,' Mr Tanner's mum snapped. ‘All right. If you want, I'll change into something really frumpy and boring and yetch. Is that what you want?'

‘Yes.'

She grinned at him, then turned into an exact replica of Melze. ‘Happy now?'

Paul groaned. ‘Look,' he said, ‘what do you get out of this, picking on me like you do? Can't you go and persecute somebody else for a change?'

Now she was looking up at him out of Melze's soft blue eyes. ‘That's what I get for rescuing you from the dungeons, is it? Charming. Not unexpected, but charming.' A tear formed at the corner of her eye; if it hadn't appeared perfectly on cue, Paul could've sworn it was real.

‘Sorry,' Paul snapped. ‘All right, then, wear what you like. And I am grateful, really. It's just, you can be so—'

‘So what?'

My sentiments exactly
, Paul thought. So long as she stopped being Melze, which was gross, it really wasn't any of his business. And he shouldn't have said that, about persecuting. ‘Nothing,' he sighed. ‘Let's just go, all right?'

Mr Tanner's mum smiled brightly and turned back into the rosebud brunette. ‘You're a bit strange, though,' she said, as he hurried down the street; he noticed that she had no trouble at all keeping up, even though his legs were much longer. He wondered whether, if he looked closely, he'd see her feet actually touching the ground at all. Looking closely, however, wouldn't be a sensible move. ‘Any normal boy your age would be thrilled sick to be seen out with something like me.'

‘Something,' Paul repeated. ‘I think that explains it all, don't you?'

She just shrugged. ‘So you're into humans,' she said. ‘I'm broad-minded – so am I. All right,' she added, as he rolled his eyes. ‘I'll stop it and be good. You didn't tell me where we're going.'

‘Bermondsey,' Paul replied. ‘It says Unit 5, Skivers Walk, so I think it's a factory or—'

‘Warehouse, actually.' Mr Tanner's mum smiled. ‘Great. I rather like them, they're sweet.'

‘You know where we're going, then?'

She nodded. ‘Glad I decided to come now, aren't you? Don't worry, nothing to be afraid of. Not if I'm with you.'

Really
, Paul thought. ‘According to the timetable, if we catch a 37A to—'

She hit his arm playfully. He was proud of how he managed to stifle the shriek of pain. ‘No buses when you're with me, silly,' she said. ‘I never go on buses. No privacy.' She whistled and held up her hand. At once, a taxi appeared. Paul wasn't sure, but as he climbed in he reckoned he caught a glimpse of round red eyes in the driver's compartment.

He shuffled along the seat, trying to keep away from Mr Tanner's mum's legs, which seemed to fill all available space. ‘Aren't you cold, dressed like that?' he asked sourly.

‘Me? Nah.' She twitched her nose at him. ‘Think about it. I'm covered from head to foot with thick black fur, it's just that you can't see it under the monkey suit.'

Paul made a point of looking out of the window. ‘I wanted to ask about that,' he said. ‘How you do it, I mean,' he added quickly, before she could make anything of it. ‘Is it, like, effective magic? What the Countess does, I mean?'