In Your Dreams (41 page)

‘What?'

Paul bit his lip. ‘The enemy. They've got it now. I, um, left it on my desk, and they've—'

Uncle Ernie closed his eyes. ‘This isn't getting better,' he said. ‘You've got the rest of it, though. Tell me you've got the other stuff.'

‘No. Well, sort of,' Paul added quickly. ‘Someone's looking after them for me, but it's all right, I trust her.' He caught the tail end of that and replayed it quickly.
I trust Mr Tanner's mum? I'm prepared to risk my life and the future of my species on the integrity of a nymphomaniac goblin. Bloody hell, I do too. Pretty well says it all, that does.
‘I can get the stuff back any time.'

Uncle Ernie sighed. ‘I do hope you're right; otherwise, if Judy were to get hold of it, the only sensible thing would be to stay here and ask Mr Dao to seal us up in our boxes and throw away the box-cutter. But here's hoping. The chalks – you found them?'

‘Coloured chalk, yes,' Paul said.

‘Burn them,' Uncle Ernie said. ‘Find a really good hot fire, like a furnace or a boiler. You should also have my watch, my pen and my screwdriver, yes?'

Paul cast his mind back. ‘That's right,' he said. ‘The watch does something silly to the space/time continuum, doesn't it?'

‘You could say that,' Uncle Ernie said sourly. ‘With it, you can halt the progress of time. Be careful with it, though; it's old and fragile, and if you break the winding mechanism, you're stuck. I wouldn't play with it if I were you.'

‘I wasn't proposing to—' Paul calmed down. ‘Understood,' he said. ‘What about the pen, and the screwdriver?'

‘Oh, they're straightforward enough. The pen writes only the truth. It's a clever little gadget, but totally illegal, ever since an ancestor of ours lent one to Gladstone so that he could finish writing an important speech. The screwdriver's probably the single most useful thing; it'll—'

The bead curtain was wrenched back, and Mr Dao came in. ‘Apologies,' he said to Paul in an agitated voice, ‘but if you wish to leave you must do so now.' From his sleeve he took a tiny bottle. ‘I've just been told that the auditors have arrived and are waiting for me in my office. This is highly irregular; they have the power to make surprise visits, but this is the first time they've used that power in twelve thousand years. I suspect that someone who is not well-intentioned towards either of you has arranged this. You,' he went on, nodding to Paul, ‘are not yet registered, so they must not find you here; it would embarrass me, and of course it would mean you could never leave, in spite of what is in that bottle. As for you,' he said to Uncle Ernie, ‘I suggest that you get back in your box and keep absolutely still and quiet until they've gone. In theory, the contents of safety deposit boxes are confidential. In practice, if they wanted to open a box, I can't see how I could stop them. Now,' he added, reaching out for Paul's sleeve then stopping abruptly, as though remembering something at the last moment. ‘Drink the blood and go. The doors should open for you automatically, but try not to imagine them, just to be on the safe side. The fewer of them you can envisage, the better.'

Paul nodded, then turned to say goodbye to his uncle; but there was no trace of him, and his shoebox was back where it'd been on its shelf. Paul looked back at Mr Dao. ‘What've I got to do?' he said.

‘Drink the blood. Hand me the bottle. Run.'

It felt horribly strange having a body again; like putting on the oldest, smelliest clothes you could imagine, the sort of things a scarecrow would give to a charity shop. He'd never been happier, however, with his previously despised legs. Thin, puny and turkey-like they might be, but at least they worked. In fact, he was impressed at the turn of speed he was able to get out of them as he sprinted across nothing at all in the direction (he fervently hoped) of the door of the cashier's room.

Paul could've wept for joy when he saw it: a faint outline in the gloom, fringed with an almost impossible greyish glow. Sagging with relief, he grabbed the handle, turned it and pushed.

Nothing happened. Then he remembered. Of course it wouldn't open. He'd nailed it shut himself, to keep the fake Melze from bursting in on him while he was making his illicit search of her filing cabinet.

He tried kicking it, shoulder-charging it (ouch), pushing against it with his back, using the muscles of his legs (scientific approach; useless), swearing at it and asking it nicely. He tried prayer, tears, and calling for his mummy. He tried bribing it. He broke the blade of his knife trying to cut through it, one shred of wood fibre at a time. He was just about to try crouching down beside it in a huddle and sobbing hysterically when somebody said his name.

He looked up. ‘Oh,' he said. ‘You again.'

‘Paul?' The fake Melze was standing over him, looking concerned and vaguely maternal. ‘Is that you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Are you okay? You look – Paul, last time I saw you, I thought you were dead.'

Paul nodded. ‘I was. I probably still am. Long story.'

‘Oh.' She frowned. ‘What did you mean a while back when you called me a liar?'

‘What I said. You aren't the real Demelza Horrocks. I don't think you're even human.' He swore, and kicked savagely at the door, thereby damaging his other foot. ‘Now look what you made me do.'

‘Paul, I don't know what you—'

‘You're one of them, aren't you? The dream creatures, Countess Judy's lot.' He looked up at her; her eyes were deep and full of pain. Why? Because— ‘She
made
you, didn't she?'

Slowly, the fake Melze nodded. ‘That's right,' she said. ‘Somebody told you, right?'

‘No, just for once I figured it out for myself. Actually, I had help; the real you phoned me. Apparently she's living in Saffron Walden, wherever that is. But I should've known, shouldn't I? Right from the start. Or at least, as soon as you began—' He hesitated, not wanting to say the word. ‘As soon as you started
liking
me. You were only ever bait, or a distraction.'

She made a sort of gulping noise, then started crying messily; tears and sniffs and hiccups all jumbled together. ‘It's not my fault,' she said, ‘I couldn't help it. That's just the way I was made. I really do—'

‘Quiet,' Paul snapped. ‘I don't want to hear it. You're not real.'

‘But I
am
,' she wailed furiously. ‘I'm completely really real, and I completely really love you.' Guilt and anger don't mix well together; the combination made Paul want to smash her teeth in with one hand and hug her with the other. ‘Tough,' he said. ‘That doesn't alter the fact that you're nothing but a glorified mousetrap. And you're on her side. Well, aren't you?'

She snuffled a couple of times, then nodded. ‘She made me,' she said. ‘I can't help it. It's not
fair
,' she added, as two fat tears rolled down her cheeks and onto her chin. ‘I've got to do what she tells me, I've got no choice at all, but I can still
feel
– That's real enough, I promise you.'

‘Oh, for—' Paul shook his head. ‘Look,' he said, grabbing her by the arms; she tried to push him away, but not very hard. ‘We need to get out of here.'

‘I know,' she mumbled. ‘But there's something wrong with the door, and I don't know what it is.'

‘Um.' Paul let go of her. ‘It's nailed shut,' he said, ‘from the other side. Two bits of two-by-four battens, with two six-inch nails on each side going through into the frame. I put them there,' he added.

‘You? But—' She stared at him. ‘Then how did you get through?'

‘I died. And now,' he added, ‘I'm bloody well stuck, and it's all your fault.'

‘My—?'

‘I only did it to keep you from coming through the door while I was looking in your filing cabinet. Because you're on their side. I—' He looked at his shoes. ‘I guess I didn't think it through properly. This is all
my
fault really.'

‘That's all right,' she said automatically. ‘I've got to say that,' she added with a faint smile. ‘I can't be angry, or think,
Jesus, what a total loser
, even though I really want to; I've got to be forgiving and supportive and tell you it's all right, you couldn't be expected to think of everything.'

Paul looked at her. ‘That's awful,' he said. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Yes, well.' She was blushing, or else crying had turned her face bright red. ‘There's got to be some way we can get out of here. How about if we both try charging it?'

They tried. No dice. ‘Ouch,' she said, rubbing her shoulder. ‘I never realised you had such a flair for DIY.'

‘Sometimes I surprise myself,' Paul replied sourly. ‘These days, the queue of people wanting to be my worst enemy tends to stretch back halfway down the hall, but I'm still quite definitely at the head of it.' He turned his head and looked at her. ‘I don't suppose there's anything
you
can do, is there?'

‘No, of course not. If there was, do you think I'd still be here?' The fake Melze frowned. ‘It'll be all right, though,' she said doubtfully. ‘I mean, sooner or later they're going to notice what you did to the door. Or someone'll realise that we're missing and come looking. And eventually someone's going to have to come, because they need to get the banking done.'

‘Of course,' Paul said. ‘The question is, when? You've already done today's. I don't mean to sound downbeat, but do you really think either of us is going to last down here until tomorrow? You, maybe, I don't know what level of ambient weirdness your lot can put up with. Me, definitely not. I'm living on borrowed time as it is. Literally,' he added, with a marginally unbalanced grin. ‘I can't be specific, but unless I can get out of here very soon, I'm stuck. And before you ask, no, I haven't got any ideas. Or a plan.'

‘That's—' She turned her head to one side. ‘That's a nuisance,' she said. ‘You see, I think that if you die – die completely, I mean, not whatever it is you did just now – then I sort of stop being, too. Nobody ever tells me anything and it's not really the sort of thing you can ask, particularly with Countess Judy, but I kind of get the impression that I'm – well, I'm coming from inside your head, like a dream, only when you're awake. A daydream. That's how I know how to be exactly what you want me to be,' she added bitterly. ‘It's because there's a part of you that's telling me what to do, what you want from me. If you die—' She shrugged. ‘Not that it's any big deal, it's been a really shitty life anyway. No offence,' she added. ‘But being your idea of what the perfect girl for you is like—' Suddenly she grinned. ‘Admit it, Paul. You understand women the way a chimpanzee understands quantum theory. Which is why, with the best will in the world, it hasn't been easy.'

‘Oh
God
.' Paul slumped against the door and let his face slop into his hands. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘Look, would it help if I changed my mind, decided what I really like is strong, assertive women who don't give a damn what I think?'

The fake Melze giggled. ‘Not really. Now, if you suddenly developed a fetish for East German lady weight-lifters, that might be quite handy. I could probably smash this door down just by sneezing at it.'

Paul pulled a face. ‘Sorry,' he said. ‘Couldn't do that to save my life.'

‘So it would seem.' She sighed, and sat down next to him. ‘It could've been all right, you know,' she said. ‘We could've – I don't know, settled down, got married, bought a flat somewhere and spent our weekends choosing curtains and putting up pelmets together. I don't know; is that what people do? I've never been one.'

‘I have,' Paul replied, ‘sort of. Actually, Sophie and I seemed to spend a lot of the time arguing, or sulking.'

‘I know. Oh, don't look at me like that. I probably know more about you two than you do; half of me's just like her, the other half's the exact opposite. I have to say,' she added, ‘God only knows what you ever saw in her.'

Paul looked at her. ‘What I saw in her?'

‘That's right. Miserable, self-centred cow, if you ask me. Mind you, I'm biased. Being made to be half of somebody'll do that to you every time.'

Paul thought about that for a moment. ‘I think we'd better concentrate on getting through this door,' he said. ‘We can tear each other into little shreds later, when we've got five minutes.'

She nodded. ‘I don't suppose your friend with the red eyes and the long nails is going to come along and save us, do you?' she said.

Paul shrugged. ‘I wouldn't have thought so,' he replied. ‘She's unpredictable, to put it mildly. Besides, she's on reception till five-thirty, and she doesn't know we're missing.'

‘What about Mr Wurmtoter? He knows Judy's up to something, maybe he'll notice you're not in your office.'

‘Maybe. But he's a busy man, rushing about slaughtering big lizards. I don't think we can rely on him, or on anybody else for that matter. I think we're on our— What're you staring at? I can't see . . .'

‘Look.' The fake Melze pointed; and a moment later, Paul could see it too. Wobbling towards them through the darkness, making a very faint creaking noise that implied unoiled bearings and untightened sprockets, was an ancient, riderless bicycle. When it was a mere two feet or so away from them, it stopped.

‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself,' it said.

A moment later, it added, ‘Perhaps you'd like to share the joke. You may've noticed, we're not laughing.'

Paul wrenched himself back together with an effort. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘It's just – well, really. I don't know who or what the hell you are, or why you've got it in for me, but honestly, you do pick your moments.'