The Portable Door (1987) (8 page)

“Yes,” Paul lied. “It must’ve been pretty miserable for you.”

“And for him, I suppose.”

“I guess. Actually,” he admitted, though he couldn’t for the life of him think why, “I’ve never broken up with anybody, so I wouldn’t really know.”

“Oh,” she said. “You’re in a long-term relationship, then.”

“No.”

She considered that as if it was a complex piece of mental arithmetic. “You’ve never had a girlfriend, then.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Not,” he added, “for want of trying. But everyone I ever liked told me to get lost.”

She looked at him over the rim of her glass. She had a foam moustache, which quite suited her. “Really?”

He shrugged. “Not that it matters,” he said. “I’m just saying, it’s better to have loved and lost, and all that stuff.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Isn’t it? Well, I expect you’re right. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, I don’t really know how bad you’re feeling, but I expect it’s pretty bad, though I don’t suppose you want sympathy either, so I’ll just shut up now. That’s about it, really.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Though it’s probably just as well. I’m not a very nice person, I’m afraid.”

Oh, for crying out loud
, Paul thought. “You’re nicer than Mr Tanner,” he said. “I bumped into him this afternoon, in Tesco’s.”

She opened her eyes wide. “In Tesco’s?”

“Just what I thought,” he replied, “though really, I don’t see why it should seem so odd. I mean, even unmitigated bastards have to shop occasionally.”

She frowned. “I’d have thought he’d have made his wife do all the shopping,” she said.

“Me too. But apparently not. He had a little list, and he was crossing things off as he went along.”

She very nearly smiled. “Did he see you?”

Paul nodded. “I walked straight into him, and he was on to me before I could get away.”
Like you and me just now
, he didn’t add. “He laughed at my pizza,” he said.

“Bastard.”

“I thought so.”

She wrinkled her top lip into a sneer. “I expect his wife does Delia Smith recipes,” she said. “Or fancy readymeals from Marks and Spencer.”

“Actually, they’re having rissoles. He told me.”

“Rissoles.”

Paul nodded. “It only goes to show, there is some justice in the world, after all. You go around being a right bastard for forty-odd years, sooner or later you’re going to get rissoles. Serves him right, I reckon.”

That little crackle of fire, from fingertip to fingertip; actually, nothing as energetic as fire, nothing so showy or conspicuous. But a little warmth, on a cold, wet night—no nightingales in Berkeley Square, just the muffled roar of the jazz band (half of whom appeared to be playing ‘Darktown Strutters Ball’, while a rival faction were blasting out ‘Hello Central, Give Me Doctor Jazz’ with every fibre of their being; they were fighting a losing battle and they probably knew it, but nobody could accuse them of being quitters; meanwhile the pub jukebox was pumping out the current number one, in happy cybernetic oblivion). It was odd that such a rowdy, untidy moment could be so perfect, but it was; because this time she did smile, though it was only a flicker, brief and unusual as a shooting star.

“I’d better go,” she said.

Oh
, Paul thought, and the perfect moment evaporated like blowtorched snow. “Well,” he said, “nice bumping into you. And really, I’m sorry about—”

She shrugged. “Actually,” she said, “it’s not so bad.” Hesitation; Paul could almost see the roulette wheel going round, with the little white ball skittering about on it. “See you Monday, then,” she said; and in the back bar, bang on time and clear as a bell, the jazz band launched into ‘When The Saints Go Marching In’. It wasn’t what she’d said, it was the way she’d said it.

“Right,” he replied, in a voice quiet with awe. “See you Monday.”

At the door of the pub, he turned right and she turned left. The rain was cold and hard, and he no longer had enough for the bus fare, but that didn’t matter, and neither did the hole in his shoe.

(
Stupid
, he thought; because he hadn’t established anything, hadn’t come away with a signed contract or something he could take to the bank. A slight thaw, maybe, an IOU for a few friendly words or a smile, redeemable at an unspecified future date, written on rice paper in invisible ink. Some people—most people, for all he knew—did this sort of thing every day; made friends, established goodwill, maybe planted the seed of affection, without even trying or knowing they were doing it. Some people, most people, but not him, he thought; in this regard, he’d always been the threadbare Russian peasant watching the fine gentlemen go by in their gilded carriages, knowing that whatever he might get his hands on in this life, it wouldn’t be that. But now, who knew? Something very odd was going on, but he didn’t mind a bit.)

From Highgate Village to Kentish Town was hardly far enough for savouring such thoughts as these, even with the rain in his eyes and a soggy left sock. Somewhere in the great darkness of London, Mr Tanner was slowly eating his rissoles, the ex-boyfriend was capering and warbling his hour upon the stage (and if his heart was broken—well, it had to be somebody else’s turn, sooner or later) and the thin girl was back home, towelling off her wet hair and either explaining or refusing to explain why she was back so early from the theatre. As he fumbled in his pocket for the front-door key, Paul could almost see them, each in a separate window on his mental desktop; never before had he felt such a strong sense of so many things going on at once all around him, from sunrise in Tasmania to sunset in Tashkent—and the strangest notion that somehow he was in the middle of it all, that everything led to him the way all roads converge on London. Which was crazy; just because a man’s hounded across the city by Gilbert and Sullivan right into the arms of the girl of his dreams, it doesn’t necessarily follow that he’s important. Maybe everybody in the world’s allowed one half-hour of supernatural intervention, one statutory wish from a National Health genie to give them their shot at happiness, and the only thing that was at all special about him was that he was one of the one per cent who actually noticed.

Or something like that. He closed the front door behind him and squelched up the stairs.
Cheese on toast
, he thought,
and a cup of black tea. Ah well
.

As Paul stepped out onto the landing, he saw that the door of his bedsit was open. That wasn’t wonderfully good, because as it happened he could distinctly remember the click of the bolt as he’d closed it behind him, when he’d left earlier. Not that he had anything at all worth stealing, unless a mad collector of 1980
s
electronics wanted exactly his model of radio⁄cassette player to complete his collection, or the Victoria & Albert Museum had heard about his black-and-white portable and sent a snatch squad. Even so—He pushed the door with his toe and it swung in. The light was on (he remembered turning it off). He counted to ten, added two for luck, and went in.

It wasn’t the God-awful mess that caught his eye, because Paul wasn’t the tidiest person who ever saved a milk-bottle top, and it’d have taken some time and thought to differentiate between the havoc wrought by the intruder and his normal habitat. It wasn’t the absence of key possessions, though on subsequent inspection he discovered that his tin-opener had gone, and also his ironing-board cover, three odd socks and his library book. What he noticed at once as he walked in, and couldn’t have helped noticing unless he’d been blind, was the very large block of stone resting halfway between the washbasin and the bed, and the very large, shiny double-handed sword that was stuck in it.

O
n Sunday morning, when Paul woke up, it was still there.
Pity
, he thought.

He’d divided the previous night between tidying up the mess (his own, as well as the intruder’s; there was now so little space left in his cramped bedsit, thanks to the Thing, that he couldn’t afford the luxury) and staring at It, wondering what the hell it meant and what he was supposed to do about it. He’d fallen asleep looking at it. Now, as he opened his eyes and saw the silhouette of the hilt against the drawn, glowing curtains, he felt more irritation than wonder or fear.
Bloody thing
, he thought; bulky, and sharp, too, as the plaster on his right forefinger testified. Far too heavy for him to move on his own (how had they got it up the stairs, for crying out loud? Something that size, you’d need a fork-lift, scaffolding, winches) and placed exactly where it would cause the maximum disruption and inconvenience.

He swung his legs off the bed and stood up, wondering whether a night’s sleep had produced anything resembling a rational explanation. Unfortunately not. Not a practical joke by his friends, not a rare species of fungus that just happened to look like a sword in masonry, not even an unwanted free gift from the Book Club. It hadn’t dropped off a passing airliner, because there wasn’t a corresponding hole in the roof. He got dressed, gave it one last long stare, and crossed the landing.

First he tried the guitarist next door; then he climbed the stairs and asked the two nurses in the top flat. All of them were unhappy at being disturbed at nine o’clock on Sunday morning, and none of them had been expecting a delivery that might have been left at his place by mistake. Paul went back to his own room, and it was still there. Bloody
persistent
thing.

He draped a shirt over the sword’s handle and put the kettle on. His duty as a citizen was to call the police, but he wasn’t really minded to do that. Possibly he might have done if he hadn’t spent the previous evening being shoved around like a cue ball by Gilbert and Sullivan; but it was all too easy to imagine the line of questions that’d lead to embarrassing disclosures, followed by an uncharitable assessment of his sanity. Also, for all he knew, they’d arrest him for possessing an offensive weapon.

Well, it was offensive, all right; it didn’t have eyes, but there were a couple of rivets on the hilt that seemed to follow him all round the room. He’d felt uncomfortable putting on his pyjamas with the bloody thing watching him. The shirt helped, so he added a couple of pullovers and an old, tired woollen scarf. Now at least it looked like a cross between a scarecrow and a charity shop tailor’s dummy, except for the fifteen inches of cold, bright steel poking out from under the tail of the shirt. Paul made his cup of tea, and perched on the edge of the bed, frowning.

Then, probably because he was looking at it from a different angle, he saw the lettering on the stone. He nearly spilled his tea; here was something to go on, at least, assuming he could read what it said.

The letters were very small, front and back; he had to kneel down and squint before he could read them.

Whoso draweth this sword from this stone shall be rightful king of all England
.

and in smaller letters still, under that—

Please dispose of stone tidily after use.

Well, that torpedoed the stolen-war-memorial theory; it also rang a bell. A Disney film, or some story he’d read in his
Book of Faraway Taks
when he was a kid. King Arthur. Excalibur.

He wished he hadn’t seen the letters after all. He tried to look on the bright side; there had to be loads of people who made stuff like this, ornaments and gift ideas for the man who had everything, executive toys for when Newton’s Cradle and the little chrome weather-vane thing just didn’t cut it any more. Had there been any big-budget fantasy films lately? Usually the promotional junk you saw standing in the Odeon foyer was cardboard and styrofoam rather than tempered steel and granite, but perhaps some marketing wizard had decided that it was time for a whole new attitude to pre-launch hype.

Yes; but why here, in his room? Unless they were delivering one to every single household in the country (and even the Harry Potter people wouldn’t go that far. Or would they?) it simply didn’t add up. He clawed at his scalp until it hurt. This was
silly
.

And then he thought:
Well, why not?

After all, it was here, it was real, and if it actually worked, he could quite fancy that, even if it did mean putting up with the paparazzi and the corgis. Not that it would, of course, but if it did—Paul pulled off the shirt, the sweater and the scarf, braced his feet wide, gripped the hilt in both hands, and heaved.

At least he had the sense to pack it in before he pulled a muscle or cut himself on the sharp edge. It wasn’t going to budge. No reason why it should, since it was clearly in there pretty solid. There didn’t appear to be a hidden catch or anything like that, and this was probably a case where even WD-40 wasn’t going to be much help. He gave up, put back the clothes and went over to the cupboard for a can of baked beans. It was at this point that he noticed the missing tin-opener.

He was hungry, and the only food in the place was in tins, as comprehensively armoured and inaccessible as a medieval knight. True, the last time he’d ventured out of doors in search of nourishment, strange things had happened to him, but being in a confined space with an overgrown letter-opener gave him a pain. He counted his money. Including the change in his trouser pocket and the small stash of copper in the jam jar on the mantelpiece, but deducting bus fares until pay day, it came to just about enough for a small sliced loaf. He locked the front door behind him, though there didn’t seem much point; there was nothing left to steal apart from the sword, and anybody who wanted that could have it, and welcome.

Instinctively he headed for the shop on the corner, only remembering as he stood outside that it had been shut yesterday afternoon. But it was open for business, and Mr Singh was outside, manhandling bales of Sunday newspapers. They exchanged formal greetings, and Paul bought a loaf.

“By the way,” he asked, “I hope everything’s all right. Family well, and everything.”

“Fine,” Mr Singh replied. “Thank you for asking.”

“That’s okay. I just wondered, with you being shut yesterday.”