My Hero (6 page)

Jane nodded. ‘Hi,' she repeated. ‘Well, hope you enjoy the book.'

‘It was just come wonder,' Hamlet went on, sitting
down on the edge of the table. ‘There I was, passing the door, and I saw this poster. And I thought, now there's just the person who could help me out of this mess.'

Screaming Jesus, Jane thought, not another one. ‘You're in a mess?' she asked, as calmly as she could manage.

‘Figuratively and literally,' Hamlet replied. ‘You wouldn't want me to take the bag off, I promise you. Look, how soon will you be through here?'

As a variant on the old when-do-you-finish-work line, Jane reckoned, it lacked sparkle. ‘Actually,' she said, ‘I am in rather a hurry today, so . . .'

Hamlet laughed grimly. ‘This isn't a chat-up,' he said, ‘believe me. Look, you really have got to help me, okay? I'll do anything you like to make it up to you, if you'll only—'

‘You could start by buying a copy of the book.'

‘Wait there. I'll be right back.'

Jane had hoped that the diversion would have given her time to disappear into the stockroom and hide behind the piles of Stephen Donaldsons until he'd gone away; but in the event he was quicker than she'd expected at the cash desk, and the strap of her handbag had got hooked round the leg of her chair. As he waved the book and till receipt under her nose, all she could do was sit down again and smile weakly.

‘Now,' said Hamlet. ‘It's like this.'

‘I'm listening.'

‘I could a tale unfold,' said Hamlet, ‘whose lightest word would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, thy knotted and combined locks to part, and each particular hair to stand on end, like quills upon the fretful porpentine.'

‘You could?'

‘Yeah. No sweat. Listen.'

In the beginning . . .

Was the Word? Not quite. To be strictly accurate, in the beginning was the Screen; and the screen was with God and the screen was God. And, admittedly, the Word moved upon the face of the screen, was put into pitch ten, italics, bold, right margin justify, macro/WORD and all the rest of it, but that came later.

Nowadays, the screen just
thinks
it's God, particularly when you want to print out. In the intervening time, creation has become a routine, a simple task that anybody can perform, given (as a bare minimum) a sheet of paper and a pencil.

One small but energetic sect somewhere in Nevada believes that when people die, they are reincarnated as characters in books. Good people become heroes, bad people become villains, and people who have led wasted, pointless lives come back as the characters in unpublishable first novels written by accountants on the office WP. The members of the sect, convinced that they are God's elect, firmly believe that they will be reborn as characters in the works of Jackie Collins. Admission to their prayer meetings is by ticket only, and there is a substantial waiting list.

They exaggerate, slightly. It is very nearly impossible for a human being to become a character, or vice versa; and on the rare occasions when it happens, it represents a serious fuck-up somewhere in the system, leading to quite forthright inter-office memos and the occasional departmental enquiry.

The vast majority of characters are, in fact, small slices of the life-force, ranking in the hierarchy some way below men and angels, but several notches above ghosts, poltergeists and things that go bump in the night. Although they have the potential for eternal life, their chances of immortality depend entirely on the skill of their creators
and the commercial acumen of their creators' publishers. They are nominally subject to the ordinary laws of physics and rules of causality, but if the copy editor and the reader don't notice, they're perfectly capable of wearing a green shirt on one page and a red jumper on the next page without even having to step into a telephone box to change.

Where they come from is largely a mystery. Some experts hold that they are parthenogenetically conceived in the mind of the author. Others maintain that every human being carries around with him millions of unfertilised character eggs, simply waiting for a stray experience or turn of phrase to float in through the eyes or the ears and set the whole process in motion.

A third body of opinion believes (correctly, as it happens) that the stork brings them.

 

Regalian had been Regalian for so long that he could barely remember being himself.

This is an occupational hazard of heroes of fantasy fiction, a genre which tends to come in eighteen-hundred-page trilogies, and the syndrome is usually referred to in the profession as ‘good steady work'. Nevertheless, it has its drawbacks, principally the disorientation effect when a hero comes off duty. It is disconcerting and often humiliating to come home after a day of strangling dragons with your bare hands to find you can't get the lid off the pickled onion jar.

Regalian's main problem was with doors. His character in the trilogy was three inches shorter than him, with the result that he was forever nutting himself on low door-frames.

A rather more insidious side-effect was the severe personality crises he tended to suffer when he was off work for more than forty-eight hours. The longer he was out of
character, the more his own submerged personality tried to reassert itself; but since he was no longer entirely sure what it was, this caused various problems which he usually resolved by staying in bed with the radio on.

Jane's four-day book-signing tour was, therefore, something of a trial for him - a cross between ice-cold turkey and a fortnight in a decompression chamber. By the end of the second day, his landlady had forced him to switch the radio off, he wasn't really convinced he knew where he was, and he felt an unaccountable craving at the back of his mind to telephone someone called Valerie and explain that the whole thing with the budgerigar had been nothing but a silly misunderstanding. It was accordingly a relief when his bleeper went, indicating an urgent message from his Creator.

Even so, the decencies have to be observed.

‘This had better be bloody important,' he snarled into the telephone. ‘Disturbing me on my day off. Aren't you supposed to be in Stockport?'

‘I am in Stockport,' Jane's voice replied defensively. Because of the trans-dimensional shift and its peculiar effect on telephone signals, Jane's voice had an echo on it like God saying,
Testing, one-two-three, can you hear me at the back there?
‘Look, I need your help, something odd's come up.'

The phrase
something odd
, magnified, echoed and distorted by being shoved backwards through the fabric of reality, can be very disconcerting indeed. Regalian raised an eyebrow and put his hand on his left temple to stop his head reverberating.

‘Could you,' he asked pleasantly, ‘keep your voice down?'

‘Sorry. Really, I hate to bother you, but this could be rather important.'

‘Fire away.'

‘Right, it's like this. There's - oh nuts, my money's run out. Could you call me back on 0167—'

The line went dead.

Regalian frowned. Jane was, by and large, a reasonably considerate author, and it was very unusual indeed for her to call her characters at home - probably, so the consensus ran, because she was sick to the teeth with them during working hours anyway.
Rather important
in this context could be anything from nuclear war to a firm offer for the film rights. He needed to know more.

Five minutes later, the phone hadn't rung again, and Regalian decided it was time to show a little initiative. Here again, the dislocation effect took its toll. Regalian the hero had more initiative than a busload of management trainees on an encounter weekend, and knew he'd think of something. The other Regalian scratched his head and wondered precisely what something might turn out to be.

Let's think this through. What would
I
do in this situation?

Well. I'd know she was in Stockport.

Concentrate. I'd ride up into the hills, probably in the middle of the night during the worst electric storm in living memory, and consult some old crone who'd summon up spirits of the dead, and they'd say where she was. Piece of duff.

Regalian had been Regalian longer than it's safe to be anybody, but even he had the notion that real life isn't quite like that.

The part of him which wasn't Regalian whispered,
Phone the publishers
.

So he did. ‘Publicity department, please,' he said. ‘Quick as you like. Hello? This is the Benighted Realms bookshop in Stockport. Where the bloody hell has she got to?'

There was a confused buzzing at the other end of the line, from which Regalian was able to deduce that Jane was due at Dillons at half past twelve and Waterstone's in Cheadle at two. He glanced at his clock, did the necessary mental arithmetic (his clock, of course, worked in Overtime, which is three hours plus one minute for each phase of the moons of Saturn ahead of Greenwich) and called directory enquiries for the number of Dillons, Stockport.

‘Hello, could I speak to Jane Armitage, please? Yes, she's there doing a signing session.Yes,
that
Jane Armitage. Yes, I'll hold. Regalian. Um, Harvey Regalian.Thank you.'

There was a long pause, during which Regalian could visualise bookshop staff looking under piles of books and in the dark corners of the stockroom; and then Jane came on, saying, ‘Yes?'

‘It's me.'

‘Gosh.' An impressed pause. ‘How did you know I'd be here?'

‘Call it heroic intuition. Look, what's the problem?'

There was a long silence at the other end of the line, which Regalian charitably put down to Jane being asked to sign a book. ‘It's a long story,' Jane said at last. ‘And you might find it a bit difficult to believe. Are you ready?'

Regalian frowned. On the one hand, he badly wanted to know what was going on. On the other hand, it was his phone bill.

‘Call me back,' he said. ‘You've got the number.'

 

This is America.

This is, to be precise, Chicopee Falls, Mass., and the year is 1959.
Rifles for Cochise
is playing at the Roxy, in gentle competition with
West of the Pecos
at the drive-in. In back yards all over town, small boys wave wooden tomahawks and shoot each other with diecast sixguns
drawn from cardboard holsters. And in a nice house on the edge of town, a man who once wanted to be a writer but now does Westerns scowls at his typewriter and tries to think of some even vaguely original way for the good guy to outdraw the baddie.

Oh for Christ's sake. He stood up, ground out the twelfth cigarette of the day, and stared out of the window. In the glass he saw his own face; and, as he gazed at it in his distraction, it seemed to change into that of his hero. His useless, whisky-sodden, two-left-footed geek of a hero.

‘Go play with yourself,' Skinner growled.

‘And whose fault is that?' Skinner replied. ‘Just for once, why don't you do like you're frigging well told?'

Skinner's eyebrows huddled together like frightened sheep. ‘One of these days,' he said, ‘I'll let you get on with it, and we'll see just how fast you really are. What am I saying? Probably you'll shoot your damn foot off just trying to get the gun out the holster.'

The idiot in the window was giving him the eye, and it suddenly occurred to Skinner that he'd been making a mistake all these years. The sonofabitch character was in fact a villain, somehow miscast as a hero. That would account for his habit of running away from showdowns on Main Street, and wearing a black hat.

‘You? Fast? I've seen faster things climbing walls with their houses on their backs.'

Feeling incredibly foolish, Skinner reached out and opened the drawer where he kept the Scholfield. He'd bought it as a publicity thing, eight years ago, out of his advance money for
Geronimo's Nephew
, and had tried to have as little as possible to do with it ever since. Firearms made him nervous, and rawhide brought him out in a little pimply rash. He was absolutely terrified of horses.

Nevertheless. The face in the window had got to him, somehow, and it was time he showed the evil sucker who was boss around here. He strapped the gunbelt round his waist - it took some doing; Wild Bill evidently didn't believe in regular meals and starchy foods - lifted the gun out, lifted the catch to check it was empty, and slid it back into the holster.

‘You're slow, Slim,' he said quietly. ‘You're so slow I could call you, listen to the third act of
Lohengrin
, and still blow your fucking head off. Okay?'

Sheer hatred flickered across the eyes in the window, and suddenly Skinner was very afraid, although what of, exactly, he didn't know. Of its own accord, his hand went to the gun on his hip. The reflection in the glass did likewise, as reflections are wont to do . . .

BANG!

There was a hole in the glass, surrounded by concentric circles of shatter-marks, like the web of a slovenly spider. The reflection was looking down at his shirt-front.

Skinner looked at the window, and then at the gun in his hand. A little curl of grey smoke drifted out of the tiny gap between the cylinder and the barrel.