In Your Dreams (29 page)

‘No,' Paul replied, with flawless honesty. ‘I'll say this for you, though. You're an improvement on the one where I'm giving the prizes at Speech Day with no clothes on. But on balance, I think I'd rather get some sleep.'

‘Oh,
you
.' She folded her arms and scowled at him. ‘You're just going to have to pull yourself together, figure out your priorities and which side your mirror's glazed on. Otherwise it's all going to be a disgusting mess, and it'll all be your fault. Do you hear me?' She leaned forward, and for a moment he thought he recognised her – except she couldn't be two people at once, could she? ‘She's counting on you,' she said sternly, ‘and there's nobody else who can help her except you. Now we've been to a lot of trouble, all of us. Your uncle even died. You've got everything you need – apart from the Door, of course, but that can't be helped, and you'll be able to cope now, in any case. You're all set. Now it's time for you to stop lolling about feeling sorry for yourself and start
fighting
. Or next time, it won't just be a goblin who gets blown up, it'll be you.' Then she turned off, just like a light; and at precisely the same moment, Paul felt the switch click between his fingers, and the bedside lamp came on.

He thought for a moment. ‘Aargh,' he said.

Just a bad dream, after all (it said something about the effects of overexposure to Mr Tanner's mum that his bad dreams featured lovely blondes). He relaxed a little, and reached for his glass of water; for some reason, his mouth was very dry indeed. As he picked it up, he dislodged something on the bedside table.

Paul carried on and drank some water. It was only as he put the glass back that his conscious mind saw it. Between the alarm clock and his watch – a rubber band.

He jerked convulsively, spilling what was left of the water; then he grabbed the rubber band and held it up to the light. Ridiculous thing to do. It was just a plain brown rubber band, such as the postman drops on your doorstep. That was how this particular specimen had entered his life; Sophie had found it there one morning. She'd leaned forward to get it, and her hair had fallen in front of her face. That always annoyed her, so she'd used the band to tie it back, and forgotten to take it out and replace it with a toggle. For some reason, Paul had commented on it, jokingly said it suited her, and thereafter (until she went away) she'd always worn it in the evenings and at weekends, even though she claimed it pulled her hair and was uncomfortable. When she left, she either threw it away or took it with her, because it hadn't been there; he'd looked for it, sentimental clown that he was, even scrabbled about on his hands and knees in case it had fallen on the floor.

He sat up in bed, with the band stretched around four fingers, staring at it. It couldn't be the same one; it had to be one he'd absent-mindedly pocketed in the office, which had come out with his keys and handkerchief. Except that it wasn't. He knew it wasn't; and just to ram the point home as deep and firm as a vampire hunter's wooden stake, there was a single black hair still trapped inside it. Sophie's colour, Sophie's length.

Fine
, Paul heard himself think.
But the girl who was here just now was a blonde.

That worried him; catching himself at a moment like this trying to figure out the mystery, Hercule-Poirot-inthe-library, instead of freaking out and screaming till they came for him in a plain van, was about as scary as scary got.

It hadn't been there before, but now it was back. Therefore someone must've brought it – we won't go anywhere near the topic of how it came into that person's possession – in which case someone must've been here, either earlier today or – God help us – just now. But in any case; why leave
that
, of all things? Threat? Ransom demand? If people wanted to get in touch with him, why the hell couldn't they just write him notes, instead of cluttering up his life with cryptic artefacts?

He caught sight of the clock. Mental arithmetic: if it's three in the morning in England, what time would it be in, say, Los Angeles?

International directory enquiries gave him the number, and a cheerful voice with a Spanish accent told him he'd reached JWW Associates, and how could she help him? He asked to speak to Ms Pettingell. Spanish-accent was very sorry, Ms Pettingell wasn't in the office right then, but she'd be happy (deliriously so, to judge by her tone of voice) to take a message.

‘It's all right, thanks,' Paul muttered. ‘I'll call again later.'

Probably just as well. One doesn't call up one's ex-girlfriend on the other side of the world, probably dragging her out of a meeting with Leo's people and Julia's people and the numbers guys from Fox, just to ask her if she knew what had become of a manky old ex-GPO rubber band. Paul didn't need to speak to her to know exactly what she'd say: his first name, caked in enough ice to preserve all the mammoths in Siberia. He could practically hear her saying it right now, her voice was clear and sharp inside his head—

Paul. Help.

He was out of bed and halfway across the room with a turn of speed that would've done credit to a greyhound, only pausing because he'd tried to run through the bedroom door without troubling to open it first. As he lifted his hand to rub his sadly used nose, he noticed that the band was still around his fingers. Frantically he tried to shake it off, as though it was a spider in his hair, but it wouldn't leave him.
Great; not only am I finally losing it completely, I'm going to spend the rest of my life with a rubber band twined round my hand. That's going to play havoc with drinking tea and buttering toast
. Then it occurred to him to use his left hand to peel the band off his right. That worked flawlessly, and he dropped the terrifying object on the floor.

It'd be really nice, he reflected, if he was one of those people who had friends. Just pick up the phone, any time, day or night, and they're there for you.
Sorry to bother you, Philip or Chris or Justin, but just now I could've sworn I heard Sophie calling my name. Really? How fascinating. Did she say anything else? Actually, yes, she did, she said ‘Help.' Gosh, Paul, perhaps you'd better come over here and we can talk about it. Better still, stay there, I'll be round in about ten minutes. That
, he thought,
would be really nice. Instead, I have to deal with it on my own. Just me. No friends.

Paul sat up the rest of the night in the armchair, with all the lights on, plus the TV, the radio and the CD player. They might as well have been unplugged, because all he could hear was her voice.
Paul. Help.
Not the most eloquent of speeches compared with, say, the Gettysburg address or
We shall fight them on the beaches
. Memorable, though. Dead memorable.

He got dressed at a quarter to six, had a slice of toast and a cup of black instant coffee at six-fifteen, then sat by the door waiting for it to be time to go to work. Horribly, he'd rather be there than in his own home, which was no longer safe now that Sophie had come back to him. (
Paul. Help. Yes, all
right,
I heard you the first time
.) He ended up outside 70 St Mary Axe at twenty to nine. The door was still firmly locked, as usual. The memory of her voice was slightly weaker now; he actually had to think of it in order to hear it, but it was like a loose tooth, impossible not to keep fiddling away at it just to see if it was still there. On the other hand, it helped pass the time like nothing else on Earth, because before he knew it, Mr Tanner was standing next to him, shouting, ‘I said, a bit keen, aren't you?'

Not the sort of experience you can recover from instantly. ‘Sorry,' Paul mumbled. ‘Couldn't sleep.'

‘So you came here.'

‘Yes.'

‘In preference to, say, counting sheep.' That Tanner grin; like mother, like son. ‘Well, the Mortensen printouts ought to do the trick, but if not, come and see me, I've got some notes of meetings that'd tranquillise a rogue elephant.' Mr Tanner turned his key in the lock and stepped through the door. ‘I suppose you might as well come in,' he said, ‘you've already met the menagerie, after all. Oh, in case I haven't mentioned it, if you ever do anything to encourage my mother, I'll rip your head off and hollow out your skull for a very small toilet bowl.'

The goblins were still out and about, scampering round reception in full armour, jumping on and off the post table, eating the fax paper and the toner cartridges. Paul managed a wan smile and a faint wave, which (he was vaguely touched to note) they duly returned. And to think; not so long ago, something as homely and folksy as goblins wrecking the front office had been enough to freak him out for days. How far he'd come since then.

Mr Tanner was sifting the post; interestingly, he used a pair of blacksmith's iron tongs for the purpose. ‘So,' he asked, not looking up, ‘why the insomnia? Indigestion? Bad kipper?'

‘I—'
I have no conceivable reason to tell Mr Tanner, of all people, about what I thought I saw last night. Mr Tanner is not my friend Mr Tanner is half a goblin, and my
boss. ‘I had this really weird dream,' Paul said.

‘I get that a lot,' Mr Tanner said. ‘But it doesn't matter with me, because it's all just biochemistry and stuff. What do you get in yours, then?' He made it sound like they were comparing sandwich fillings.

‘Girls,' Paul said, before he was ready.

‘Right,' Mr Tanner said. ‘Serves me right for asking.'

‘No, not like that.'
Shut up, Carpenter. Embarrassing yourself to death is a really tacky way to commit suicide, not to mention criminally inconsiderate.
‘It was – well, this girl I knew. She was calling my name and saying, “Help.”'

‘This girl you knew,' Mr Tanner repeated. ‘Correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't know any girls.' He frowned, tongs extended towards a brown window-envelope marked
Inland Revenue
. ‘Not any more, at any rate. She dumped you, right? That thin girl.'

‘Sophie.'

‘Like it matters, but yes.' Mr Tanner put the tongs down on the desk. ‘Was that who you heard, then?'

Paul nodded wearily. ‘Yes.'

‘So—' Mr Tanner broke off, fished in his pocket, brought out a huge blood-red handkerchief and sneezed violently. ‘Bloody office cold,' he muttered. ‘You had it yet? It's a classic, you'll enjoy it. So you had a dream where Ms Petingell was calling your name and pleading for help?'

Not pleading, exactly. Barking in exasperation for help.
‘Yes,' Paul said. ‘Well, actually, no, because that was after the dream. When I was awake.'

Mr Tanner looked at him, like an early bird debating whether to send back an unsatisfactory worm. ‘Then it can't have been a dream, can it? You only have them in your sleep, it's one of the salient features of dreams. You heard voices.'

‘I suppose so,' Paul mumbled.

‘Like Joan of Arc.'

‘Well—'

‘All right, not quite like Joan of Arc. I accept that Sophie wasn't urging you to drive Peter Mayle out of Provence. But you heard her voice, and you were awake.'

Paul dipped his head. ‘Yes.'

‘I see. Out of interest, why've you got a rubber band looped round your fingers?'

There was a short interlude, during which Paul had rather a lot of trouble breathing. Then he said ‘It' a couple of times. Mr Tanner, oddly enough, was nodding his head.

‘Hers,' he said. ‘Right?'

‘Right.'

‘Give it to me. No,' Mr Tanner added quickly, ‘hold on a second.' He picked up the tongs, used them to grip the band and tease it gently off Paul's wrist, like a detective retrieving a fibre sample from a murder scene. He dropped it in one of the empty envelopes, sealed it with Sellotape and put it away in his inside pocket. ‘I'll hold on to that for you for a day or so,' he said. ‘You need to get some sleep sooner or later, or you'll be completely useless.' He frowned, then used the tongs to push aside the lapel of Paul's jacket. ‘That badge thing,' he said.

Paul had forgotten all about the Sea Scout badge, and its painful effect on goblins. ‘Sorry,' he said guiltily, ‘I hadn't realised it was still there. I'll put it away—'

‘No, don't do that.' Mr Tanner took the tongs away and stepped back as if getting but of range. ‘You hang on to that for a bit, you never know.' He paused. Something was making him uncomfortable, as though he had a fishbone stuck in his throat. ‘You know,' he said, ‘I'm sorry, the way things've turned out for you. I know you don't like it here and you'd far rather pack it in, quit. Unfortunately,' he went on, looking at the frosted-glass front window, ‘that's not possible right now. But I just thought I'd tell you, it's not – Well, anyway.'

Paul would have liked to say something at this point, but he had nothing worth making the effort for.

‘Quite,' Mr Tanner said. ‘Right, you get on with the Mortensens, and let Julie know when you're finished. That's all.'

Paul wanted to fall asleep during the morning, curled up in a soft nest of computer printouts, but he seemed to have lost the knack. (
Can you forget how to sleep?
he wondered.
Do you have to go on special sleep-training courses, where they read you bits of railway timetables and literary criticism textbooks?
) He couldn't even persuade his mind to wander; he was focused, to his absolute amazement, on his work; to the point where he'd have missed lunch if someone hadn't knocked on his door and broken the spell.

‘Hi,' Melze said, poking her head round the door. ‘Fancy coming out for lunch?'
The hell with it
, Paul thought,
why not?
Last night, during the long vigil, he'd been wishing more than anything that he had a friend, someone he could talk to about what he'd been through in the last week or so. Fool, he'd forgotten about his oldest friend of all – true, the issue was clouded somewhat by the fact that she was a girl and he was (not beyond reasonable doubt, but on the balance of probabilities) in love with her. Stuff like that can clog your mind, like bits of rice and cold pasta gumming up a dishwasher.