In Your Dreams (39 page)

Still. He couldn't think of anything better, or even anything worse; his mind was completely blank, presumably an after-effect of whatever the Fey had done to him while he was asleep. He thought about it for a moment and decided:
Let's go for it. Just because it's a bloody silly idea and there isn't a hope in hell of it working and it'll almost certainly make things very much worse, it doesn't mean I shouldn't do it. It's how governments make laws, after all.

Step one.

As Paul carried out the preparations for step one, he occupied his mind with trying to remember why he'd come down here in the first place. Not the easiest of riddles to solve; but when all was said and done, he'd achieved something by the exercise. He'd learned who Grendel's Aunt was, he'd confirmed his suspicion that the fake Melze was indeed working for the enemy, he'd discovered what the Fey were actually up to – and how they were doing it, using his Portable Door. It'd have been nice if he could have just asked someone back in the office, or looked it up on a website or something, but apparently it was the sort of information that you had to pay dearly for. And now, at least, he had a general idea of what was going on. What a very pleasant change that made.

Step two. Paul had heard it said that step two didn't hurt, not that he could understand how anybody could possibly know. He hoped very much that the rumours were accurate for once, since he'd long since faced up to the fact that he didn't so much have a pain threshold as a pain cat-flap.
Never mind
.

With his thumbnail Paul prised open the big blade of his Girl Guide pocket knife. It had always been stiff, and as usual he tore his nail getting the blade out. Then he laid his left hand on his knee, wrist uppermost, and grabbed tight on the piece of string he'd looped round his elbow. At the last moment he closed his eyes, locating what he devoutly hoped was the right vein by feel.
This is a bloody stupid idea
, he thought,
but
— But what? Presumably there was a but, or this wouldn't be The Plan.
Oh fuck
, he thought,
I hate having to be me.

Then, grinning at the irony implicit in that last thought, Paul slashed the arteries of his left wrist.

Chapter Twelve

D
ying wasn't so bad. In fact, compared to a bumpy Ferris wheel or flying with Virgin Atlantic, it was relatively relaxing and stress-free. Probably it helped that Paul was in a darkened cell at the time, since he hadn't realised that he was going to bleed quite so much, and the sight of blood had always turned him up rotten.

No need to open his eyes or stand up. Once he'd got over the initial panic, it was actually rather pleasant to be free of his body; something like getting out of the house after being cooped up inside for days. He'd never liked it much anyway: it had always been the wrong size, shape, length, width. He'd never thought much of the face, the hair was the wrong colour, the arms and legs were too thin, the feet were too big and his system always seemed to have a headache or a cold. In the event that The Plan screwed up and he didn't get his chassis back, maybe that wouldn't be so bad after all. A person could really be himself without a stupid body holding him back—

Paul couldn't feel anything. He knew, because of all those trips to the Bank, that there was a floor here, something solid enough to take his weight when he'd walked on it. Not any more, apparently. Presumably that was how astronauts felt, floating in space on the end of a bit of string. Only difference being, no string.

Help
—

Paul forced himself to stay calm. The Plan would work. Everything was going to be just fine. Any moment now, he'd do what he'd come to do, and then he could go home. It wasn't like this was going to be permanent.
Stop panicking.

No string. No sensation of movement, either. In fact, no sensation at all. He was beginning to wonder if this had been such a good idea after all—

‘Paul?'

He didn't have to turn round to see her; she was just there, so close that he could have reached out and touched her, if he'd had anything to reach out with. Just for a moment, too, he fancied he could feel something; not a particularly nice something, more a sort of excruciating burning sensation, as though he was much too close to roaring fire. It was, he realised, her body heat. As soon as he'd figured that out, it stopped.

‘Paul,' she repeated, ‘what the hell are you doing here? And what's happened to the door? I can't get back through to my office, I'm stuck here.' She paused. He could see the fear in her eyes; could sympathise, in spite of everything. The thought of being still alive and stuck down here because the door back to the cashier's room wouldn't open almost made him feel guilty about having nailed it shut. ‘Paul,' she repeated, ‘are you all right? You look – different.'

Well gee, Melze, thanks for bloody noticing. I'm dead.
No sound, no voice; he'd formulated his reply and thought it at her. Apparently she must've received the message somehow, because she said, ‘Dead? You can't be, it's impossible. What happened?'

She's the enemy, remember? Don't know. Was sudden. I was asleep, dreaming. Now I'm here. This is a dream, right?

She was the enemy, that'd been established beyond reasonable doubt; so why the look of horror on her face? ‘Paul, I—' Her lips trembled, her eyes were wide with the old Aristotelian double whammy, pity and terror. ‘I – I don't think so,' she said. ‘I think you're— Oh Paul, I'm so, so sorry.'

Why? Not your fault, is it? No, seriously. This is just a dream. I'll wake up soon. Won't I?

‘Paul—' She hesitated; maybe she'd just thought of something, like how it would be if she couldn't find her way home, not ever? Guilt and horror and pity are fine when you've got your return ticket safely nestled in your top pocket. ‘I can't get out, Paul. What's wrong? Why won't the door open?'

If he'd had anything to grin with, he'd have grinned like a dog.
Don't ask me, I'm dead, apparently. See you around, whatever your name is.

‘Melze,' she said, as though at some level she was trying to convince herself, or keep from forgetting. ‘I'm Melze Horrocks. We were at school—'

Fibber. Have a nice day, now.

Paul withdrew from her faint circle of light; he didn't go away, as there were no places to go to or away from, but she wasn't there any more. Reflecting on their conversation, he wished he hadn't been quite so cocky. If The Plan had screwed up, or hadn't been any good to begin with, he was far more likely to end up stuck down here than she was. How long would it be before someone had occasion to drop by the cashier's office, noticed the boarded-up door and broke it open?
No, wait.
What would they notice first, the nailed-up door or the wide-open filing-cabinet drawer? Depends on who it was. Countess Judy, for instance, would probably be more interested in the drawer, whereas Ricky Wurmtoter would be more concerned about the door. Sooner or later, though, someone would notice, because the banking had to be done, cheques and TT forms and petty-cash requisitions had to be dealt with. Paul had no idea how long the living could stay down here before going native, but it seemed pretty good odds that her chances were better than his. In which case, screw compassion.

Work to do. Initially he'd been worried that he'd have forgotten the way to the Bank. Silly; like being afraid of dying of thirst if you happened to get turned into a fish. No places down here, therefore no ways to forget. He was at the Bank.

‘Mr Carpenter.' Mr Dao, the polite, gracious bank official, sounded genuinely concerned. ‘I wasn't aware that you were due to arrive; otherwise I'd have sent someone to meet you, as a courtesy to a valued customer. I trust your journey was not unduly distressing.'

Fine, thanks.
‘Fine, thanks.' He hesitated. ‘Oh, right, I can talk to you. Is that because—?'

Mr Dao nodded, clearing up a very small doubt. ‘Because I'm dead too, yes. I can talk out loud to both the living and the dead; it's one of the minor privileges of my office. I'm pleased to hear that your transition was relatively painless, at any rate. Have you been to Reception yet? The paperwork—'

‘Not yet, no. Actually,' Paul said, as casually as he could manage, ‘before I check in, there was just one little thing I was wondering if you'd do for me. For old times' sake, you know.'

Mr Dao nodded gravely. ‘If I can, of course. How can I be of assistance?'

Difficult to be convincingly casual, at a moment on which his entire future existence or lack thereof hinged, though it was a comfort not to have to worry about his body language giving the game away. ‘My uncle,' he said. ‘Ernest Carpenter. I believe – you've got a strongroom, right? Where customers can deposit stuff for safe keeping?'

To Paul's overwhelming relief, Mr Dao nodded. Paul had guessed that there was such a facility, but he hadn't ever seen any hard evidence. ‘I am, of course, well acquainted with your illustrious uncle.'

‘Great,' Paul said. ‘Well, as it happens I'm his, um, legal heir. So I was thinking, before I register, which presumably will make me sort of officially dead as opposed to just dead dead; would it be all right if I had a look to see if Uncle Ernie's got anything stashed away down there? Really it's just curiosity more than anything else, but the family was really surprised when all we found was a cardboard box of old junk; I think they were expecting money and stocks and shares and bonds and all kinds of stuff. My guess is, he burnt it all so it'd come down here. Not being able to take it with you's exactly the sort of rule that Uncle Ernie hated most; I'm sure he'd have found a way.'

Mr Dao was silent for a long time. From the pale glow behind his eyes, Paul was convinced that he'd seen through the lies. Nevertheless, just when Paul had given up hope, the banker dipped his head gracefully and said, ‘Of course. I can confirm that your uncle has a substantial credit balance at the Bank, as well as a strongbox in our safe-deposit facility. Since you are the next of kin – I'm sure I can take your word for that without having to check – I can see no objection, in this instance. If you'd care to follow me.'

Clever me
, Paul thought;
I didn't just figure out the existence of the Bank strongroom from first principles, I also guessed that Uncle Ernie had a box there, so it's a real shame I can't remember how I came to all these wonderful conclusions. Mind you, if it turns out there's nothing in the box except a bundle of porn mags and a fortune in Confederate dollars, won't I be the silly old sausage? I'll probably laugh so much I have to be taken home.

Inside the Bank— There are no places where the Bank is. But there are doors: big, thick, black hardened-steel doors with colossal lever locks, huge bolts, gigantic padlocks in enormous hasps; time-delay locks and combinations locks, locks that only open with a retina scan or a DNA sample or a 108-bit security code or a nice smile and a pretty please. There aren't any walls for these doors to live in, but that doesn't matter. A wall can be bulldozed or dynamited. When the door is surrounded by absolutely nothing, that's security. One door after another, like two mirrors facing; and each time, Mr Dao turned the key or entered the code, then stood politely to one side so Paul could go first. After the hundredth door, or it could have been the thousandth, Paul reckoned it would only be simple politeness to say how impressive it all was. Mr Dao acknowledged his compliment with a tiny nod. ‘Thank you,' he said. ‘However, when you feel you've had enough, please do tell me. I confess I find this activity fatiguing.'

‘Oh,' Paul said. ‘I thought—'

Mr Dao smiled. ‘The more doors you expect to see, the more there are,' he explained. ‘A thief would spend all eternity finding new ones. Nevertheless—'

‘That'll do fine,' Paul said quickly, as the latest door swung open. Behind it was one of those bead curtains, very 1970s; and beyond that, a set of shelves; and on the shelves, a row of shoeboxes. Paul braced himself like a diver about to plunge into cold water, and forced himself through the curtain. To his great relief, it parted around him and he passed through it; he was solid again, which was nice.

‘Second shelf, third from the left,' Mr Dao said. ‘I'll be just outside if you need anything.'

He passed through the bead curtain, leaving Paul alone.

Well
, Paul thought,
here we are
. He had to stand on tiptoe to read the names scrawled on the boxes in black marker pen; but sure enough, on the second shelf, flanked on one side by
Drake, Sir F
. and
Presley, E.A.
on the other, was a box marked
Carpenter, Dr E.
He reached up and gently pulled it out, nearly dropping it on the way. It was nice to have arms again, but they felt strange, as though they weren't his size. Resting the box on the edge of the bottom shelf, he lifted the lid and looked inside.

‘Hello, Paul.'

Uncle Ernie climbed out of the box like steam rising from a bath. It took him a moment to consolidate. He hadn't changed much since Paul had last seen him; a long, stringy man with a large head and enormous bony knuckles. He was smiling.

‘Hello, Uncle Ernie,' Paul replied.

‘Well done, by the way,' Uncle Ernie said. ‘Pretty smart, to piece it all together the way you've done. Chip off the old block, and all that.'

Paul smiled feebly. ‘Thanks,' he replied. ‘The trouble is, whatever it is I figured out, I've forgotten it. Or rather,' he added, ‘someone's forgotten it for me, if you see what I mean.'

Uncle Ernie nodded wisely. ‘I think so,' he said. ‘How is Countess Judy these days, by the way?'

‘She tried to kill me,' Paul said. ‘In my dreams.'

‘And that's why you're here, of course.' Uncle Ernie shrugged. ‘You have to realise, it's not because she doesn't like you or because of anything you've done. The Fey are just different, that's all. And dangerous, too,' he added. ‘Very dangerous, bless them, though they're great fun once you get to know them properly. Wonderful card players, among other things.'