May Contain Traces of Magic (22 page)

No slide show. No smiling host with a big red book. No blinding flashes of clarity. Also, he couldn't help noticing, no grip failure. Either he was a hell of a lot stronger than he'd always thought, or something was going on.

Screw it, Chris thought, and tentatively flexed his fingers. They came apart quite easily, though they were painful and stiff, as though he'd been carrying a heavy supermarket bag. No contact whatsoever with the torch bracket, but he wasn't falling. Bloody odd, he thought, and looked down at his feet.

He was standing, he discovered, on a bird. A hummingbird? He was no ornithologist. One of those tiny, brightly coloured little buggers who can hold still in mid-air by flapping their tiny wings a million times a second. All he could see were the blurred wing-tips and the point of its beak, but there was no doubt about it; the little sweetheart was carrying his entire weight on its minuscule back, and apparently thinking nothing of it.

Not possible, that went without saying. Magic, then. That actually made him feel a lot better. A real hummingbird couldn't bear his weight for a split second, but who knew what a magic one might be capable of? Only one way to find out.

So he waited patiently, watching the bird's wings, and nothing happened.

Then he thought: forget about the bird for a moment, pretend you're standing on a ledge or something, and for crying out loud think of some way out of this. Easy to say, he thought back at himself, but this is about as bad a position as it's possible to be in, really the chances of me getting out alive are—

Not that bad, Chris thought suddenly, if someone were to stand at the top of the tunnel and let down a long, strong rope. I could tie it round me, and then all they'd have to do would be to pull me up. True, nobody knows I'm here except John, who pushed me down here in the first place, but that's all right. After all, I have my phone. All I have to do is phone - well, Jill, obviously, she can send helicopters and storm troopers, strong men with cranes, wenches with winches, and I'll be out of here like a cork out of a—

No signal.

For some reason, that upset him rather more than the falling stage of the proceedings had done; the hope, he reckoned, so much more painful than the terror or the despair. He started shivering, so much so that he lost his hold on the phone and dropped it. He watched it fall ever such a long way before it vanished into the darkness.

For two pins, he thought, I'd jump. But he didn't. Instead, he thought: all right, what else have I got? Quick rummage in his pockets. A CD case, containing
Now That's What I Call Really Bad Music 56
. A comb. A wallet. A pen. A screwed-up piece of tissue paper. A copy of
The Book of All Human Knowledge
—

Well now, Chris thought, what about that? A book guaranteed to tell you what you really need to know. Tiresome and irritating, yes, and about as user-friendly as a shark, but
guaranteed
, with the full authority of JWW Retail behind it. Compared with the next best alternative, which was standing on a hummingbird waiting for something to turn up, it did seem curiously attractive.

He glanced down to make sure the bird was still fluttering away - yes, fine - then opened the
Book
in the approved manner, at random. As was often the case, the words were blurry and illegible at first; if the information you needed was in any way abstruse or out of the ordinary, it took a while to search and assimilate. But he was a patient man. He gave the
Book
an encouraging smile, and tried not to think about the first signs of pins and needles in his right foot.

The print clarified, as he'd known it would. It read—

 

 

Ah, he thought.

There had been a fair few complaints about that; but, as Chris explained whenever a customer raised the issue, one of the
Book
's main advantages over inferior rival publications was the support package; constant revision meant it was up to date literally to the minute, ensuring complete accuracy and guaranteed user satisfaction. True, from time to time you had to wait around for a bit, but that was a small price to pay for something you could trust absolutely.

Ten minutes later, the words dissolved and were replaced by—

 

 

Oh, he thought. Well, maybe if I just—

 

 

On the positive side, there was a little animated picture of a clown doing handstands, presumably to keep Chris from getting lonely while he waited. He watched it for twenty minutes, after which its charm seemed to fade a little, so he spent the remaining eighty minutes swearing at the
Book
's designers. He was just getting into his stride when the text flickered again, and read:

 

 

But all that proved to mean was closing the
Book
and opening it again; which got him—

What? Chris thought. No, really, please. Another time, sure, but not now. What I need to know is how to get off this bird and back up this vertical shaft without slipping, falling and going splat, so can we please try again? Please?

He closed the
Book
, then opened it.

 

 

He'd never ground his teeth before - read about it, certainly, but never actually done it; wondered how you went about it, because it seemed such an odd way of expressing frustration and rage. In the event, it came quite naturally. Didn't help much, though. Never mind; he had the key. Fold back the corner of the copyright page, and a menu drops down. Press
show hidden
with your thumbnail, and you get a list of options, including
Index
. Keep it simple; he touched his nail to
Falling
, and waited:

 

 

Beneath his feet, the hummingbird wobbled. Poor little bugger, he thought, he must be knackered. He pulled the menu back up and tried
Heights, great.
Then he had a go at
Down, problems associated with
and
Gravity, hostile
and even
Splat
; but each time, all he got was—

 

 

The bird was definitely starting to slow down. Instead of a blur, its wing-tips were becoming visible. Chris tried just opening the
Book
at random, on the off chance that it had fixed itself. More fucking Gandhi. He whimpered. The shock was starting to wear off, like a local anaesthetic, and panic was slowly creeping in. Magic, yes, but magic is very real and it'll kill you given half the chance, and even an enchanted hummingbird couldn't stay flapping its wings for ever and ever. A nasty thought occurred to him; maybe the bird was a JWW Retail product. In which case, he was screwed—

When absolutely all else fails definitively, consult Help. Back to the index, apply quivering fingernail. He got—

 

 

Oh, for crying out loud, he thought. ‘Help!' he yelled. His voice dopplered away down the tunnel, the sound bending into strange and unnerving contortions. The page flickered, and read:

 

 

‘Yes, it fucking is,' he shouted at the
Book
. ‘I'm going to die, you stupid object. Tell me how to get out of this, quickly.'

Flicker.

 

 

‘What? Oh, yes, all right.'

Salesmen are like priests; they can only operate effectively if their faith is unshakeable. Once the thin, sharp blade of doubt penetrates the armour of unquestioning belief, it's time to book your place in the handcart, if possible specifying a seat facing away from the handles, for a trip to the bad place. Sure, the customers complained about the
Book
. They complained a lot. They said it was a useless piece of shit, only fit for regulating wobbly tables, they were insulting the intelligence of their clientele just by having it in the shop. But they said the same about everything, and they only did it in the hope of screwing Chris for bigger discounts, or out of the primitive tyre-kicking instinct that's so deeply rooted in us all. The thought that, just for once, they might have a point came as a very nasty blow, and almost made him fall off his hummingbird.

‘Screw you,' he said, therefore. ‘I'm about to die, I need
help
, not a bloody history lesson.'

He closed his eyes. ‘Gandhi, right?'

Chris slammed the
Book
shut, toyed with the idea of dropping it down the shaft, realised he couldn't be bothered, and stuffed it back in his pocket. Story of my life, he thought; someone else always knows better. Wanted to do Art and Drama for GCSE, got told don't be stupid, what you want to do is Business Studies and Maths. Wanted to be a sorcerer; no, he didn't, he wanted to be a rep. Wanted to marry Jill; got Karen instead. No point in getting worked up about it at this late stage. Really, it was a question of perspective; as in, is there really any merit in getting upset about losing a life as lousy as mine? Well, no. Just a pity that the poor hummingbird should've been put to so much trouble for nothing.

Unless, of course (the thought hit him like a hammer) he'd been missing something. After all, the
Book
was a hundred per cent reliable and accurate. Guaranteed.

‘Bird,' he said.

‘Tweet.'

I'm going to feel such a twat if this works, he thought. ‘Take me up.'

‘Tweet.'

Chris felt the increase in wingbeat tempo through the soles of his shoes. By now, what with cramp and ankle fatigue, he was having trouble just standing still. As the bird started to rise, he felt himself wobble alarmingly, and had to wave his arms about to keep his balance. As the ascent continued, however, he got the hang of it and kept perfectly still. To keep his mind off what was happening, he thought: yes, but why did Honest John push me down an enchanted toilet in the first place? Furthermore, what's going to happen when I get to the top and he realises I'm back? Are we going to have to go through all this again, or should I do something brave and aggressive, like cut his head off with the tapemeasure?

He really didn't like the thought of that, and tried to talk himself into believing that it had all been an accident, or a misunderstanding; an ill-judged practical joke that had gone a bit further than it should have done. But he wasn't that persuasive. The bastard had definitely pushed him, and although it was true enough that it's a wise man that knows his own toilet, chances were that he'd done it with malice aforethought.

Chris considered the chances of being able to sneak out of the shop unnoticed, and put them at around four to one. The question was, however, did he want to creep away, as though he was the one who'd done something wrong, or was he prepared to stop being the universal victim and do something about it?

Well, no, in case Honest John thumped him and threw him back down the bog. Making a stand, drawing a line in the sand, fighting for your fundamental human rights are all very well if the circumstances are with you - if you've got a gun and the bad guy hasn't, for example, or if you're backed up by a large number of big, ferocious supporters. Otherwise, you're essentially encouraging the culture of violence and oppression by giving the thumper something to thump.

He was nearly there. As his eyes came level with the rim of the toilet seat, he whispered, ‘Stop,' and the bird obligingly obeyed. He looked round, as far as his limited field of vision would let him. No Honest John, nothing at all except the toilet-roll holder and a partial view of a stack of cardboard boxes in the opposite corner. ‘Up,' he said; and when the moment was right, he stepped off the bird onto the seat, slipped, fell forward and crashed into the pile of boxes.