In Your Dreams (32 page)

Paul just made it to St Mary Axe by ten, which was his appointed time. He was still wearing Friday's clothes, stylishly though eccentrically enhanced by a big white rectangle on the left knee of his trousers. Countess Judy gave him a very quick glance, held the door open for him and went away without a word. Even the goblins gave him a wide berth; as he approached, the little knots and gangs of them he encountered in the corridors and on the stairs immediately went very quiet and backed hastily away, which he reckoned was a bit much. Needless to say, none of them came anywhere near him all day.

But, at a quarter past eleven that night, Paul carefully laid the last printout on the last pile, taking exaggerated care to line its edges up perfectly with the sheet underneath. He could feel his brain trying to force its way past his eyes and eardrums as it boiled and seethed with boredom, but he'd got the job done and he hadn't fallen asleep once. In spite of everything, he couldn't help feeling – yes, dammit, actual genuine pride. Something ludicrously pointless and stupid attempted, something done. Go tell the Spartans, and all that.

He stood up – his legs appeared to have forgotten how to do the standing-up business, and it was a second or so before it came back to them – and spent a whole two minutes just gazing at the vast array of neat, orderly paper bundles.
Thank God
, he thought,
that my office hasn't got a window, because this is precisely the moment in every comedy film ever made where a sudden gust of wind scatters the lot
—

Not wind, sure; but goblins. Goblins with the run of the place, dozens or even hundreds of malignant scampering non-humans who most of all just wanna have fun, preferably by breaking and spilling things. The mental image was more than he could bear. But, just as Paul had resigned himself to standing guard until Monday morning, inspiration struck. He took his Sea Scout badge, gave it a quick buff on his lapel, and laid it on top of the bundle nearest the door.

Joy
, he thought.
Joy isn't anything I've imagined it to be over the last twenty-odd years. It's not Christmas or true love or chocolate ice cream or even getting out of the dungeons of the Fey. It's finishing this.
Something so simple, yet so unspeakably wonderful.

Paul was just about to turn off the light when he stopped, went over to the long blank wall opposite his chair and studied it, inch by inch. Nothing there, needless to say. No goblin scratches, no faint warmth to the touch, no slight clamminess where something had adhered to it by suction, no faint lines or cracks in the plaster to indicate a cunningly hidden seam. Another aspect of this overriding joy: by Monday he'd be healed – he wouldn't see doors in walls or be convinced that he knew the face of every bubblegumchomping brat he passed in the street. All he'd have to put up with would be talking bicycles, extortionate lawyers' fees, the Bank of the Dead, his own shortcomings as a human being, and Mr Tanner's mum. And he'd have Sunday off, as well.

Joy.

Paul shook his head, closed the door gently to avoid making a draught, and went home.

Chapter Ten

S
unday dissolved into dreamless sleep; no kids, no girls, no talking bicycles or bossy cars or chatty transport of any kind. When the alarm went on Monday morning, Paul tumbled out of bed feeling brighter and livelier than he could remember. He had a feeling that something horrible was now over, and he wouldn't have to go back there again.

The Mortensen piles had vanished from his desk; it was clear, apart from a page torn out of a small notebook, with a few words scribbled on it in Countess Judy's preying-mantis handwriting:

PAC—

Work satisfactory. See Christine, regards office management assignment.

JDCB

Fine
, Paul thought. He knew what office management meant in JWW-speak: shifting furniture, or helping with the photocopying, or replacing the starter motor in the fluorescent lighting tubes. Any one of the above was vastly preferable to sorting Mortensen printouts, so he fairly sprinted up the stairs to find out what he had to do.

‘That filing cabinet,' Christine explained.

Paul nodded. ‘It's in Countess di Castel'Bianco's office now, isn't it?'

Christine frowned. ‘Yes,' she replied. ‘Fancy you knowing that. Anyhow, it's got to come out of there and go into the cashier's room. You won't be able to manage it all by yourself on the stairs, though.'

‘I could try,' Paul said, trying to sound feeble and undernourished.

‘What, and chip all the paint in the stairwell? No, I'll give Mr Suslowicz a ring, he might have a minute or two.'

Much to Paul's relief, Mr Suslowicz wasn't there. Paul had only spoken to him a few times and on each occasion he'd found him unnervingly pleasant, for a partner; but he was still The Boss, not to mention a giant (albeit a rather short one). ‘Damn,' Christine said. ‘Usually I get Benny Shumway to help with this sort of thing. I'd help you myself, but I did my back last week at aerobics, and it's an enchanted filing cabinet, so you can't just magic it, you'd probably blow up the building.' She tutted for a moment or so. ‘This is a pain – the Countess told me to get it shifted this morning, priority.'

If it occurred to Paul to wonder why moving a filing cabinet into the cashier's office was so important to a senior member of the partnership, he didn't dwell on the issue. ‘How about Mr Tanner's— Rosie,' he amended quickly. ‘I mean, she's a – They're quite strong, aren't they?'

Christine arched an eyebrow at him, but swivelled round to her phone and keyed a number. A minute or so later, the door opened and a petite, fragile-looking Chinese beauty walked in, wearing a pale blue silk dress and four-inch heels. Christine looked at her and clicked her tongue. ‘Thanks for helping out,' she said tersely. ‘You might want to change, though. Wouldn't want to risk you straining something.'

Mr Tanner's mum's laugh was like the distant tinkling of silver bells in the still air of morning. ‘Get stuffed, Chris,' she said. ‘I could carry a titchy little thing like that balanced on my nose.'

Paul edged sideways an inch or so. ‘In that case,' he muttered, ‘maybe you won't be needing me after all. Perhaps I should just—'

‘No you don't, lover,' chirruped Mr Tanner's mum. ‘I've been wondering what you'd look like all sweaty. Talking of which, has some joker turned the heating down? This place was like a fridge all yesterday.'

Christine shrugged; nothing to do with her. ‘I'll leave you two to it, then,' she said. ‘If you go now, the Countess is downstairs with clients in the boardroom – you won't have to disturb her.'

The thought of going into Countess Judy's office bothered Paul, but he couldn't very well say anything; furthermore, all the way down the stairs and through the maze of corridors he had to put up with Mr Tanner's mum leering at him, in a way that elicited at least one snigger from a passing secretary.

‘Have you got to do that?' he muttered, as she licked her lips for the third time in as many minutes.

‘For crying out loud, Paul, I'm a goblin,' she snapped. ‘It's like cats with bits of string, it's not a conscious decision or anything. You don't think I'm not sick to the back teeth chasing about after you?' She sighed. ‘It's practically a duty. The sooner I've dealt with you, the sooner I can get on. It's like those computer games, where you've got to beat the dead boring level before you can move up to the interesting ones.'

Even with the door closed, Paul could tell from the outside that Countess Judy wasn't in her room. It was the difference between a light bulb turned on and off. Even so, he knocked on the door and counted to thirty before cautiously turning the handle and going in.

‘Bugger,' he said aloud. ‘Are we in the right room?'

Behind him, Mr Tanner's mum laughed. ‘Think about it,' she said.

Bare walls, plain wooden floorboards, a ratty old chipboard desk, a plastic stacking chair and the filing cabinet. Paul couldn't help standing in the doorway and staring. ‘But it wasn't like this the—'

‘I said think about it,' Mr Tanner's mum repeated. ‘Like the old Fey proverb: who needs a coach when you've got a pumpkin? So long as she's in the room, it's like Versailles – or,' she added, ‘a tart's boudoir, depending on your aesthetic standards; any kind of decor, soft furnishings, Old Masters on the wall, you name it. When she's not in it, why should she care? It's the old light-inside-the-fridge paradox; that's basically what the Fey are all about.'

Paul nodded. That made sense; except that the filing cabinet looked exactly the same as it had when he'd caught a glimpse of it the other night. The crummy old government-surplus desk had looked like priceless Louis Quinze. ‘Can we not hang about in here any longer than we need to?' he said. ‘Sounds silly, I know, but—'

He tailed off. For once, Mr Tanner's mum wasn't grinning, leering or fluttering so much as a single eyelash. ‘You know,' she said, ‘there are days when you aren't quite as dumb as you look. You grab the top end, and let's get out of here before I throw up.'

Paul took hold of his end of the filing cabinet and, when Mr Tanner's mum got to ‘three', he tried to lift. ‘Bloody hell,' he said, straightening up in pain, ‘that thing's
heavy
. What's she got in it, for pity's sake?'

Mr Tanner's mum scowled at him. ‘There are also days,' she said, ‘when you make depleted uranium look like gossamer. Trust me, you don't want to ask questions like that in a place like this.'

Paul was puzzled. ‘Depleted uranium?'

‘As in dense.'

‘Oh, right. So you don't think we should try taking the drawers out first, make it easier to carry?'

‘No.'

Whatever else Mr Tanner's mum might have been, she surely was strong. Once she'd taken the weight at her end, all Paul really had to do was help steer, and open the cashier's room door with his spare hand once they'd got there.

‘Oh, great,' Melze sang out as they backed the cabinet through the doorway. ‘I've been waiting for that. Can you put it there in the corner, just next to the bookshelf? Thanks.'

Just a moment
, Paul thought. ‘You've been waiting for it?' he asked.

‘You bet. I hate having little piles of paper littered all over the floor.'

Paul straightened up, trying to ignore the chorus of protests from his back. ‘You're going to keep stuff in here?'

Melze looked at him. ‘Paul, it's a filing cabinet. You put papers in them, you don't teach them the flute or take them on walking holidays looking at interesting old churches.'

‘But it's full.'

Melze laughed, and pulled open a drawer. ‘No, it's not,' she said. ‘Look, empty. Unless you count very old dead spiders.'

Paul looked at the empty drawer, then back at Mr Tanner's mum who lifted her shoulders in a tiny little shrug. ‘Well, anyway,' Paul said, ‘there you go. I hope you're very happy together.'

‘Actually, it's not just for me, the top three drawers are for those Mortensen things. I gather you had a really fun time putting them in order.'

‘Yes, but you'll never get all of them in just three drawers. There were mountains of them—' He paused. Melze was stuffing armfuls of familiar-looking papers into the top drawer of the cabinet. ‘There,' she said, ‘all done. Unless you've got a few more you've been keeping back for a rainy day.'

‘That's
all
?' Paul gasped, but Melze just shrugged. ‘It's got nice big drawers,' she said (and, to Paul's surprise, Mr Tanner's mum didn't say a single word). ‘So,' she added, perhaps a bit too casually, ‘you free for lunch today?'

Paul was about to say something –
yes
, probably – when Mr Tanner's mum pushed past him and stood between him and Melze. ‘Sorry,' she said, ‘but he's taken. There'll be another one along in a minute.'

‘For God's sake,' Paul spluttered. But he didn't get any further than that, because Mr Tanner's mum elbowed him, very subtly and very effectively, in the solar plexus. He took a couple of steps back and thought about things for a bit, while Melze and Mr Tanner's mum stared at each other like a couple of multinational companies playing hostile takeovers. It was Melze who broke eye contact first. ‘Fine,' she said. ‘Tomorrow then, maybe.'

Mr Tanner's mum's jawline had gone all Mount Rushmore; now it relaxed into the classic grin.

‘In your dreams,' she said; and, for some reason, that seemed to bother Melze; she turned her back on the pair of them and muttered something about having work she had to get on with. Mr Tanner's mum clamped her hand round Paul's elbow with a grip like a mole wrench and steered him out of the room.

‘Don't say anything,' she said, and you could've sharpened carbon steel on her voice. ‘Not one word, got it?'

Paul was still too deeply interested in when it was going to stop hurting to argue; he'd explain it all to Melze later, he decided, when the little red and green lights had stopped flashing behind his eyelids.

Neither of them spoke as Mr Tanner's mum conducted him down the stairs; the only thing missing, Paul reckoned, was the raincoat over their wrists. She let go of his elbow when they reached the ground floor. ‘All right,' she muttered, ‘so maybe I shouldn't have hit you so hard. I'm a tad out of practice with my gentle hitting these days. But you've got to promise me; just this once, and it's only for the next few days or so, try thinking with your brain instead of your—'

That was rather more than Paul could take, coming from her. ‘Please,' he said, with what he hoped was chilling courtesy, ‘just leave me alone, will you? For ever?'

She shook her head at him. ‘I don't know,' she said. ‘Why've I always got to pick the feckless, pathetic ones?' She walked away before he could think of anything to say.