In Your Dreams (19 page)

‘If it's all right with you,' he heard himself saying, ‘I think I'd like to go on now, please.'

Little Paul looked at him blankly for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Fine,' he said, ‘if you think you can hack it. No skin off our nose.'

‘Thanks,' Paul said; and almost before the word was out of his mouth, the faint glow of light outside the window had burst in and flooded the room. Paul shut his eyes, as though he'd carelessly looked straight at a welding torch. When he opened them again—

It was an office; a very beautiful, very expensive office. Even the walls were carpeted, and woven into the pile was a monogram,
JWW
intertwined like wrestling snakes. Somewhere a telephone was ringing, and Paul noticed that it was making one long purr, American style, instead of the querulous British
beep-beep
. Through the window he could see the flat roofs of lesser skyscrapers, and beyond them, a rocky hillside decorated with huge white letters.

Oh
no
, he thought.

A small girl wearing a Friends Forever T-shirt stood up from a luxurious leather armchair in the corner, and curtsied mockingly as she pointed across the room. There, in matching chairs across a low, broad glass table, sat a lean, bronzed, surfer-type young man and a dark, thin girl. He was drinking iced tea through a straw. She was absently reaming out her ear with her little finger. Paul only knew one person in the world who'd do a thing like that.

‘Welcome to Hollywood,' whispered the Friends Forever child maliciously.

‘Where is this place?' Monika was asking, but Paul ignored her. If he kept very still and quiet, he could just hear what the surfer and the thin girl were saying—

‘And after I broke up with him . . .' said the thin girl.

Paul swung round, looking for the child, but she'd disappeared. Reluctantly, he turned back. The surfer was laughing at something apparently very funny.

‘Sounds like a total loser,' he said. ‘Excuse me, but your taste in guys—'

The thin girl smiled bleakly. ‘Oh, it gets better,' she said. ‘After him came Paul. My God.' She looked away for a moment, as if regaining her composure.

‘That bad?' said the surfer.

‘Worse. Really, really worse.'

‘Jesus.'

‘Absolutely. I mean, you've heard of Peter Pan, the little boy who didn't want to grow up.' The surfer was nodding gravely, like a plastic novelty Aristotle. ‘Like, talk about immature, Paul was Beaujolais Nouveau. And trying to talk to him was like juggling with custard.'

The surfer's lips thinned. ‘Scared to commit, huh?'

The thin girl sighed and shook her head (and Paul thought:
Her hair never swayed like that when she was with me . . .
) ‘I still don't know how I stuck it out for as long as I did. Like, I remember reading once, this thing about an army officer; and in his report, someone had written:
His men would follow him anywhere, but only out of curiosity
. I think that's maybe how I put up with Paul all that time. I mean, it was fascinating to watch, in a sick sort of a way. And it was my fault too, let's be honest.' She pulled a face. ‘There was this love potion – it's a long story. And for some stupid reason I thought that maybe I could change him, if I really loved him enough.'

‘Ah yes.' The surfer grinned. ‘The famous JWW love philtre. But I thought that was, you know, for ever—'

‘That's what it says on the bottle,' the thin girl replied. ‘And I read up about it, and it'd never failed before. But then, it never had to contend with Paul Carpenter.' She laughed. ‘They should bottle him and market him as the antidote. Actually, maybe that's why they hired him in the first place. I mean, there has to be a reason.'

The surfer's chuckle was deep and somehow very distasteful, or so Paul thought. ‘Sounds like there's not much chance of you guys getting back together again,' he said. ‘But maybe I'm missing something here. If the guy's such a dork, why did you drink the love potion?'

The grin she gave him was sad and guilty. ‘Because I'm pathetic, I suppose. I mean, I'd just broken up with the other creep – no, wait, I'm losing count here. It was after the
other
other creep turned out to be a goblin in disguise.'

‘Bummer,' whispered the surfer.

She nodded. ‘Actually he was a sort of off-relation of Mr Tanner, our mining and mineral rights partner; he'd disguised himself as a human and, well—' Her ears and the tip of her nose pinkened. ‘Seduced me, I guess. And it wasn't even because he fancied me, it was just part of some stupid office politics thing. You can imagine, that didn't do my self-image a whole lot of good. And – well, there was Paul, following me round like some kind of pathetic lost puppy; and I thought, the hell with it, let's be practical. I knew Paul was absolutely besotted with me; and if I took the potion, well, that'd be that taken care of and out of the way. I'd be in love with him for ever and ever, I'd be able to cross finding true love off my list of things to do, it'd be one less pressure on me—' She shook her head sadly. ‘My parents' fault, to a certain extent. I think they probably do love me, but they were always giving me that sad look – when are you going to settle down, find yourself a nice young man; it's so much
hassle
, having to deal with that day after day after day. That's why the love philtre's such a great idea. Like arranged marriages, I guess, only you can have the convenience and the not-fussing, and true romance as well. Anyhow, that's why I did it, and probably it wouldn't have been such a bad idea, only it didn't work. I had to choose the one man in the universe who's such a colossal waste of space and resources, even a love philtre can't make him tolerable. So I dumped him and came over here.'

Paul looked away. Mostly, he felt cold, as though he'd been lying in the snow for an hour. ‘Hey, you,' he said quietly. ‘Elf.'

At once the small girl was standing beside him. ‘We are not elves,' she said angrily. ‘Elves are Santa's little helpers. We are the Fey. Please bear that in mind if you enjoy breathing.'

Paul pulled back his lips in a poor imitation of a smile. ‘Oh be quiet,' he said. ‘I just wanted to ask you, is there any reason why we've got to stay here, or can we get on? Only there's other things I could be doing, and—'

If the look on the child's face was anything to go by, she was genuinely impressed. ‘You want to go on?' she said. ‘After hearing that?'

Paul shrugged. ‘I don't see what that's got to do with why I'm here,' he said.

‘Are you stupid or something?' The child raised her eyebrows. ‘Look, maybe you're missing the point here. You've seen what we can do to you if we want to, and you still want to carry on. Either you're really, really brave, or—'

Paul smiled grimly. ‘I know what I am,' he said. ‘Beating me up like this – well, I'm not exactly enjoying it, but you won't stop me this way. All you're really doing is telling me what a pathetic mess I am, and I knew that already.'

‘Oh.' The child seemed rather taken aback. ‘So, she told you, did she? About taking the potion?'

Paul shook his head. ‘But I'd guessed it had to be something like that. I mean, I had an idea she'd drunk the stupid thing. I thought it was by accident, but apparently not. Broad as it's long. So, can we press on now, please?'

The child pulled a face. ‘Talk about a piece of work,' it said. ‘All right. But if you think this sucks—'

‘You should've stuck with dragons and stuff,' Paul interrupted. ‘I'd almost certainly have run away from dragons. All this –' he waved a hand vaguely towards the corner where the thin girl sat ‘– this is just stuff I live with every day.'

‘Very brave,' the child said mockingly. ‘On the other hand, I've got a dictionary at home which says that “brave“ is just another word for too stupid to get out of the way.'

Paul couldn't be bothered to reply. It wasn't as though any of it mattered, anyway. He'd known why Sophie had left him the moment he'd seen her letter. If this was the worst that the Fey could throw at him—

That business with the light again. He opened his eyes, and then closed them and opened them once more. Made no difference. Either it was very dark indeed wherever this was, or he'd gone blind.

‘Hello?' he mumbled.

‘Paul? Is that you?' Benny's voice; but sounding uncharacteristically subdued. ‘Over here.'

Paul tried to walk to where the voice had come from, but something caught his foot and he staggered clumsily to his knees. ‘Benny?' he called out. ‘Is it dark in here, or—?'

‘Yes,' Benny replied. ‘Stay where you are, it's not worth trying to move about. What the hell are you doing here, anyhow? Please don't tell me you're trying to rescue me.'

‘Well,' Paul said, ‘yes.'

‘Fuck,' Benny replied. ‘Whose stupid idea was that, then?'

Paul didn't answer that. ‘What's happening?' he asked. ‘Where are we?'

‘Dungeons,' Benny said gloomily. ‘And that's about all I know. I asked you a question. Who sent you?'

‘It was my idea,' Paul said.

‘Liar. Who was it? Was it Ricky Wurmtoter? Did he manage to get out somehow?'

‘Sorry,' Paul replied. ‘I mean no, I haven't seen any sign of him.' He remembered something. ‘Isn't he supposed to be in here too?' he asked.

‘Don't know,' Benny replied. ‘I came down here to rescue him, but I've been here so long I'm losing track of everything. You do realise, don't you?' he added, suddenly urgent. ‘We're stuck here for good. We aren't ever going to get out.'

Paul was still too disorientated for that to mean anything. ‘What makes you say that?' he said. ‘I mean, they know we're here. The partners, I mean. The Countess and—'

‘So
she
sent you.'

‘All right, yes, she sent me. Which means,' he plodded on, ‘when I don't come back—'

He tailed off. It was a moment before Benny spoke. ‘When you don't come back,' he said, ‘that's it. After that, there's nobody left. Haven't you got it yet? If Ricky Wurmtoter's still in the cell next door, it means the whole fucking department's down here. All of us. There's nobody left up there to come after us.'

A small, detached portion of Paul had to admit:
Well
,
yes, actually, a hell of a lot better than dragons.
‘But what about Mr Tanner? Or Professor van Spee, or—?'

‘You clown,' Benny snapped. ‘They can't do this sort of stuff, they aren't heroes. They couldn't get past the portal, even if they wanted to, which they wouldn't. Haven't you worked it out yet? If any bloody fool of a sorcerer could do this job, we wouldn't be needed. It's a specialisation. Not everybody can do it. In fact, only a tiny handful.'

Long silence. ‘I don't understand,' Paul whimpered.

‘Fine. Then I'll explain.' Paul took a step backwards. Even though it was pitch dark, he could feel Benny's anger building rapidly, like a motorway tailback. ‘In order to do this bloody ridiculous stuff,' he said, ‘you need a hero, right?'

Paul nodded, then remembered that Benny couldn't see him. ‘Right,' he said.

‘And you're a hero, it says so in your personnel file, right after where it says
no initiative, not a team player, attitude leaves much to be desired
. So it's a fact. Now you're thinking,' Benny went on, ‘that it can't be true, you're not the hero type. And that's where your total and complete lack of a fucking clue betrays itself.'

‘But it
can't
be true,' Paul almost pleaded. ‘Come on, I should know—'

‘You don't know
anything
.' He could hear Benny forcing himself to calm down. ‘Nobody ever said you were a great hero. Obviously you're not. You're a little tiny one; you know – faster than a speeding second-class letter, leaps very small buildings in a single bound. But what the hell. A Pekinese is still a dog, right?'

Paul thought fleetingly of the little Yorkshire terrier with its three heads. ‘All right,' he said. ‘I still don't quite see—'

‘Then shut your face and let me tell you.' Silence; Benny marshalling his thoughts. ‘Where you go wrong is, you don't know what makes someone a hero. You think it's probably bulging muscles, superior weapon skills, trivial stuff like that. Well, you couldn't be more wrong if you tried. A hero's only got to be two things: brave, and good. That's all.'

In comparison
, Paul thought,
beating my head against a brick wall would be both productive and agreeable.
‘But I'm not either,' he whined.

‘Fuck you, Carpenter, if I say you're good and brave, you're good and brave. Do you want me to explain, or don't you?'

‘Sorry.'

‘So you should be. And you are. Right, where was I? Good and brave. Well, brave you can probably get your head around, but how about good? Do you have any idea what “good“ means?'

‘I used to think I did,' Paul muttered.

‘Well, you don't. Here's something for you to think about. Would a good person deliberately do something that'd mean unbearable lasting pain for those who love him most?'

‘Um,' said Paul. ‘No.'

‘Thank you, now we're getting somewhere. How about “brave“? Can you do brave for me?'

Paul nodded. ‘Facing danger,' he said.

‘Good. Nearly right, anyhow. Brave is facing up to stuff that you know is dangerous, because, obviously, if you don't know that it's dangerous it doesn't count. So a brave guy is someone who does something even though he knows he could get killed, right?'

‘I suppose so.'

‘Fine.' Paul had never heard Benny sound so harsh, even in his manic drill-instructor mode. ‘So you're a brave man, and you face the terrible danger, and you get killed. So what about people who love you? Family and kids and wives and girlfriends? Obviously you're going to have to use a little imagination here, Carpenter; but how do you think they're going to feel when they hear you didn't make it this time? That you went chasing off to fight evil against overwhelming odds, knowing full well that you didn't have a chance, knowing full well there're these poor fools who love you, and you got yourself killed. What does that make you?'