In Your Dreams (54 page)

Sophie had insisted that Paul had the bed; she'd had plenty of sleep lately, she reminded him, and now she felt like staying awake for a while, which she could do perfectly well on the sofa. So he lay on top of the undisturbed sheets, his hands behind his head, staring at the lighter darkness where the white-painted ceiling was, and begged sleep to come along and rescue him from the nightmare that he'd fallen into. At seven o'clock, he gave up and went into the kitchen. All the milk in the fridge had turned to runny cheese, and the one tomato that represented his entire stock of food had white hairs growing on it.

She came into the kitchen an hour later and made herself a drink. ‘This isn't the usual coffee,' she said.

‘That's right,' he said. ‘Ricky Wurmtoter drank all the Nescafé and got me that horrible muck instead. He said it's better for keeping you awake.'

‘Is it?'

‘Yes,' Paul replied. ‘But it tastes disgusting.'

Sophie nodded, and tipped it down the sink. ‘What are you going to do this morning?' she said. ‘We've got a half-day holiday, if you remember.'

Paul shrugged. ‘I think I'll go in anyway,' he said. ‘I was supposed to scry a whole lot of photos for Mr Tanner – you know, looking for minerals – and I never got round to it.'

Sophie nodded again. ‘I'd better go in too,' she said. ‘I don't feel like hanging around here on my own. And there's some stuff I need to find out about before we see Mr Wells.'

So here Paul was, at his desk, fingering two-dimensional slabs of some bit of Africa. The bauxite seemed particularly elusive today – either that or he'd lost the knack of finding it, which would probably grieve Mr Tanner more than himself. Maybe you couldn't find bauxite if your heart was broken. Probably something like that.

Julie came in around mid-morning. ‘You're not supposed to be here,' she said.

‘Very true,' Paul replied. ‘I keep thinking that, but here I am.'

She wasn't having any of that. ‘Mr Wells gave you the morning off. Why aren't you at home, enjoying yourself?'

‘Well, Mr Tanner told me that I had to have all these done this morning. So I thought I'd better come in and enjoy myself here. I've done this batch, but I've still got these to do. Tell him that I'm sorry, and I'll bring them up to him as soon as I've finished.'

‘Can if you like, but he's not in today. Had to go to a meeting in Bloemfontein, so he won't be back till tomorrow. So there's no rush,' Julie added. ‘You could've stayed home this morning after all.'

Paul's smile was like the mathematical definition of a straight line, the shortest distance in two dimensions between the corners of his mouth. ‘Life's little ironies, huh. Never mind.'

Julie shrugged. ‘Please yourself,' she said. ‘I only came down to tell you that it's Mr Suslowicz's birthday tomorrow, so that'll be a fiver.'

‘Huh?'

‘For the cake. We always get him a cake on his birthday.'

‘A fiver each? That's a bloody big cake.'

‘He's a giant. I can come back after lunch.'

Paul sighed and disbursed five pounds. He'd been intending to buy his dinner with it, but what the hell, he wasn't hungry. ‘Do we each get a slice of the cake?'

‘No.'

‘Fair enough. Do you want to take on these pictures or not?'

Julie shook her head. ‘I'll come back when you've finished, otherwise I'll have to make two trips.'

Paul struck bauxite on the last photograph but one, ringed the spot in blue marker and looked at his watch. Quarter to two; that gave him fifteen minutes before he was due to see Mr Wells. Under normal circumstances the thought of an interview with the senior partner would've puckered up his intestines like a tulip about to burst into bloom, but he wasn't bothered in the least. When you've died twice and lost the only girl you'll ever love twice and done everything you could to kill the Queen of the Fey, getting frowned at by the boss slips a notch or two down your list of things to be upset about.

The door opened, and Sophie came in; Paul knew it was her by the way the door started to open, which was as weird as a ferret in a blender, but that's love for you. ‘Hello,' she said.

‘Hello,' he replied.

Sophie sat down in what used to be her chair. ‘We've got to go and see old Mr Wells in ten minutes.'

‘That's right.'

She picked at her fingernails with a biro cap for fifteen seconds or so, then took a small glass bottle from her jacket pocket. ‘I've been up in her office,' she said; no need to ask who
she
was, in this context. ‘They've locked the door, but it's one of those combination locks, and I've got her memory of what the code was.'

Paul frowned. ‘What did you want to go in there for?'

‘For this.' She held up the bottle. ‘I remembered she kept some for emergencies.'

‘Ah, right. What is it?'

Sophie was looking at him. ‘I've been thinking,' she said. ‘I told you last night, everything I've ever felt for you's just gone for ever, so I can't love you any more. But there's this stuff.'

Then Paul knew exactly what it was. ‘That's the love philtre,' he said.

Sophie nodded. ‘It's not fair on you otherwise,' she said. ‘I mean, it's not right that I don't love you any more. If I drink this stuff, I will. It'll be back how it was, more or less.'

Paul stared at her. Inside his mind was a huge, complex tangle of thoughts and feelings, ranging from joy and relief to anger and disgust, and there was no way of knowing which part of the tangle was which. ‘You'd do that?' he said.

She shrugged. ‘I don't care,' she said. ‘It doesn't really matter what happens to me, and you'll be happy. And me too, I suppose. After all, being in love with someone who loves you back – that's the main thing, isn't it? That's what we're all supposed to want, more than anything in the world.'

The tangle unravelled itself in a blur, and the blur became a mental image of Melze, the fake Melze, the one who loved him with every fibre of her synthetic being, and whom he'd loved back, until he found out that she didn't really exist. What had become of her, Paul wondered; and realised that he couldn't care less. ‘But it wouldn't be real,' he said. ‘It'd be an illusion, like the stuff
she
used to do – effective magic.'

‘So what?' Sophie shrugged, a slight, understated movement of her thin shoulders. ‘It's better than nothing, isn't it? And anyhow, it'd be as near real as makes no odds, because I
did
love you, very much. It'd be different if I couldn't stand you before, but it's just, well, like rebuilding a damaged house or something. Well? Do you want me to or not? I'm not bothered one way or the other.'

‘No,' Paul said.

‘Suit yourself, then.' Sophie put the bottle down on the desk. ‘I offered, so don't go around looking all tragic and sad. Obviously, you don't love me as much as all that.'

He looked at her. ‘I'd have thought it was obvious that I do,' he said. ‘Which is why using that stuff wouldn't be right.'

Sophie yawned. ‘Whatever,' she said. ‘If you're going to be all picky, then forget about it.' She reached out to take the bottle back, but left it where it was and folded her hands in her lap. ‘Which of us is going to stay in the flat? I can move back to my parents', I suppose.'

‘Up to you,' Paul replied. ‘I don't think I want to stay there.'

‘Once I've gone, you mean. Couldn't bear to be alone with the memories.'

‘Don't say it like that.'

Sophie shook her head. ‘You should try sharing your skull with the memories
I
' ve got,' she said. ‘I think I'd be better off going home. Being on my own wouldn't be a good thing right now.'

Paul looked at the wall. ‘If you're sure,' he said.

‘It'd be better,' she replied. ‘I'll get my stuff at the weekend. If you want, I'll pay my half of the rent till you can find someone to share with.'

He grinned bleakly. ‘I'm not the sharing kind,' he said. ‘I'll look for somewhere smaller. Anything larger than a shoebox gives me agoraphobia, in any case.'

‘That's not true.'

‘No, it isn't. Does it matter?'

‘No.'

Sophie was still looking at him. ‘Paul,' she said, ‘what happened to her?'

Not a question he wanted to answer. ‘How do you mean?'

‘I remember her leaving me, but that's all. Is she—?'

Paul shrugged. ‘I don't know, is the honest answer. Mr Wells did something to her, sent her through the Portable Door. Said something about the Isle of Avalon, if that's any help.'

Sophie frowned. ‘That's in Somerset, isn't it? Where they have the big rock festival.'

‘Is it? I don't think that's what he could have had in mind. I thought Avalon was where King Arthur went; and probably Elvis and Princess Di and JFK and Shergar and all that crowd.' He thought about that for a moment. ‘She'll fit in well there,' he said. ‘Her kind of people.'

‘I suppose.' Her brow furrowed. ‘What I mean is, she can't come back, can she? I couldn't stand it if I thought she could come back.'

Good question
, Paul thought, and he remembered what Mr Wells had said, about Countess Judy continuing to do consultancy work. Saving the human race was one thing, but JWW was in business to make money, and that, apparently, had been something Countess Judy had been very good at. ‘Absolutely no chance of that,' he said.

‘But what about the stupid Door thing? If that's how she got there—'

‘Yes,' Paul said, ‘but I've got that, and nobody's going to get their hands on it except me, promise. Unless you want it. You can have it if you like.'

Sophie looked at him, and he didn't know how to begin to interpret her expression. ‘No, thanks,' she said. ‘You keep it, it'll be safe with you. After all, you're a hero, aren't you?'

Paul actually managed a laugh. ‘You're right,' he said, ‘with me, it's about as safe as the Stock Market. But I think I know somewhere where it
will
be safe, if I can face going there again. Come on,' he added, ‘we'd better go and see Wells.'

‘Essentially,' Mr Wells said, steepling his fingers on his desktop, ‘everything you've been told is true. You were both of you bought from your respective families by this firm, which is why we can force you to continue working for us against your will. Furthermore, Mr Carpenter, you were indeed bred – if you'll pardon the expression – with the sole purpose of concluding Ernest Carpenter's work against the Fey and their proposed invasion of our side of the Line. Ernest Carpenter was for many years a partner in this firm.'

‘What happened?' Paul asked. ‘Did he retire or something?'

Mr Wells's face betrayed a tiny trace of embarrassment. ‘He was made to leave,' he replied. ‘The partnership felt that his ongoing enmity towards the Countess di Castel'Bianco was having an adverse effect on the firm's business. Accordingly, he was paid the value of his share, and he left. He then proceeded to devote the rest of his life, and his entire financial resources, to carrying on his fight against the Fey. When his money was all spent and his credibility in the trade was damaged beyond recovery, he took his own life – intending, as we know, to return once you had completed the job. It's a tragedy that his obsession should have cut short a quite brilliant career.'

‘Just a moment,' Paul said. ‘He saved the human race, didn't he?'

Mr Wells nodded slightly to concede the point. ‘Arguably,' he said, as though Paul had won a trivial point on a technicality. ‘To return to the matter in hand,' he went on. ‘I've discussed the matter with my partners, and we've decided that since neither of you were what one might call free agents as regards your part in recent events, it would be inappropriate to take disciplinary action against either of you. We feel that, although your actions were directly responsible for the loss to the firm of a partner and a very considerable proportion of the firm's income, you were in effect acting under duress and therefore can't be blamed for what happened. In consequence, as far as the partnership is concerned, the matter is closed.'

Before Paul could say anything, Sophie was on her feet. ‘This is a test, right?' she said.

Mr Wells looked at her. ‘I beg your pardon?'

‘A test,' she said, ‘to see if I'm really me or something; because it can't be for real. You can't be saying, “You just went through the most incredibly horrible experience ever and saved the human race, but it's OK, we aren't going to fire you.“ Even
you
—'

‘Miss Pettingell.' Mr Wells seemed offended. ‘I fail to see what could possibly prompt such an outburst. Your actions have indeed damaged the firm and cost us a great deal of money. However, we accept that neither of you are to blame—'

Sophie called Mr Wells a part of the male anatomy. This didn't seem to help, but at least it shut him up for a moment. ‘I can't believe it, even coming from one of you lot. My life's been totally ruined, Paul nearly
died
—'

‘Actually, I
did
die,' Paul said mildly. ‘Twice.'

‘—And you seem to think I actually
want
this lousy job. Well, all I can say is, you must be even more of a stupid fat jerk than you look, which I wouldn't have thought was possible but apparently you managed it. You got that? I quit. I'm leaving. Goodbye.'

Sophie swirled round and marched to the door, which wasn't there any more.

‘Miss Pettingell,' Mr Wells said slowly, with the air of someone wrestling back his temper with both hands and a cattle prod. ‘When I mentioned the possibility of disciplinary action, it wasn't dismissal that I had in mind. The firm has lost quite enough money recently without forfeiting the substantial capital investment represented by our purchase of you. What I had in mind was rather more along these lines.'