The House of Doors - 01 (28 page)
Read The House of Doors - 01 Online
Authors: Brian Lumley
Towards that end he now graphed one of Angela’s pursuers and fed the resultant profile to a secondary locator. Scanning externally, the locator radiated its beam sweepingly outwards from the Castle on Ben Lawers and found the real Rod Denholm awaiting trial in his cell in a Perth police station … .
D
avid Andersen—who, for a high-ranking MOD minister, was now as disreputable a sight as anyone could ever wish to see—had felt the sudden rush of air as the coffin-shaped door sucked him in; he’d closed his eyes and heard the door’s sepulchral
clang
as it slammed shut behind him, and a moment later had gone sprawling to his hands and knees. Then—
avid Andersen—who, for a high-ranking MOD minister, was now as disreputable a sight as anyone could ever wish to see—had felt the sudden rush of air as the coffin-shaped door sucked him in; he’d closed his eyes and heard the door’s sepulchral
clang
as it slammed shut behind him, and a moment later had gone sprawling to his hands and knees. Then—
There was noise all around him, tumultuous noise, which at first served only to further alarm him. His confused brain had not known what to expect; but whatever it might have expected, it was certainly not this. Still clutching his cigarette lighter in a palsied hand, finally Anderson wincingly, cringingly opened his eyes.
Sight and sound coordinated, and the resultant revelation was almost too much for him. He looked out into a street, one of the world’s most famous streets, and could scarcely believe his eyes.
“Oxford Street?” he said then, his jaw hanging slack and his eyes starting out. “Oxford bloody Street?” He drew air in a huge gasp, and let it out in a shout of joy. “Bloody wonderful for-God’s-sake
Oxford Street
!”
Oxford Street
!”
“It’s a good sign, that, sir,” said a knowing, mildly caustic, booming bass voice. “Knowing where you are, I mean. It means you haven’t quite managed to kill ’em all off yet. Not all of ’em, anyway.”
“Kill them off?” Anderson answered automatically, without looking up. On all fours, he continued to gape out into the busy flow of traffic like a blind man whose sight has suddenly returned to him.
“Brain cells, sir,” said the booming voice. “Booze does that, you know, in large quantities. Kills ’em off.”
Anderson knew that someone stood close by, and that others skirted him where they passed in chattering streams in both directions along the pavement. Now he dragged his eyes from the bustling traffic to stare hard at a pair of shiny black boots. He blinked his eyes and shook his head but none of it went away. He was really here, really back home. Back home in London!
His eyes traced a line from the boots up the sharp creases of blue uniform trousers, to the jacket and shiny buttons, the frowning, shaded, narrow-eyed face beneath the familiar Bobby’s helmet. A policeman: an ordinary, everyday, metropolitan God-bless-him-forever policeman! “My God! My
God
!” Anderson cried. “Oh my good,
good
God!” He clutched the policeman’s leg and wept hot, salty tears down his trembling, grimy jowls.
God
!” Anderson cried. “Oh my good,
good
God!” He clutched the policeman’s leg and wept hot, salty tears down his trembling, grimy jowls.
A strong hand reached down, took him under the arm, and with some difficulty lifted him to his feet. “Now then, my Old China,” said the policeman, displaying a great deal of patience. “See, you’re either to show me that you’re a nice responsible sort of chap and start behaving yourself, or I’m to fix you up with a nice cool uncomfortable place to sleep it all out of your system. It’s entirely up to you.”
Anderson
was
back home, back on Earth, in London, and he knew it. It appeared to be summer, or a very warm day in the spring at least, and that wasn’t quite right (indeed it was quite wrong, and rang small warning bells in Anderson’s head, which for the moment, in his extremity of joy, he ignored) but everything else was perfectly normal. This was his place—yes,
his
, not Clayborne’s madhouse or Varre’s labyrinthine lunatic asylum—and he had power here. Nor had he forgotten how to use that power. He dabbed away his tears of relief, puffed himself up and shook off the policeman’s hand.
was
back home, back on Earth, in London, and he knew it. It appeared to be summer, or a very warm day in the spring at least, and that wasn’t quite right (indeed it was quite wrong, and rang small warning bells in Anderson’s head, which for the moment, in his extremity of joy, he ignored) but everything else was perfectly normal. This was his place—yes,
his
, not Clayborne’s madhouse or Varre’s labyrinthine lunatic asylum—and he had power here. Nor had he forgotten how to use that power. He dabbed away his tears of relief, puffed himself up and shook off the policeman’s hand.
“Constable,” he said, fighting hard not to dance and laugh, and so make an even greater spectacle of himself, “I don’t suppose for one moment that you’d accept or even understand the only explanation I can offer for my present appearance. But as you now see for yourself I am not, as you so obviously suppose, under the influence of alcohol. Nor am I drugged or in any way … unbalanced. I am in fact a Minister of the government of the day, which I can prove easily enough. Indeed, I may very well need to do just that, for in all fairness to you, you could hardly be expected to recognise me under all this dirt! As to why I appear as I do: that is for authorities somewhat higher than your own, and it’s imperative that I report to them as soon as possible.”
The policeman nodded, smiled understandingly and again took Anderson’s arm. “I see,” he said, “and you’re the Minister for Crawling Along Pavements, are you? Well, best if you simply come along with me, Old Lad—and nice and quietly, if you don’t mind.”
Once more Anderson shrugged him off, and quickly produced his wallet containing almost two hundred pounds in twenties and some smaller notes, his driver’s licence, and several other identifying documents; but chiefly his stamped, signed ministerial security card with a recent photograph welded into the plastic laminate. There could be no mistaking or denying that.
The policeman studied Anderson’s papers, and Anderson himself, scratched his jaw and shook his head, finally handed the documents back. He was still uncertain, but … under the grime and stink, certainly Anderson’s clothes were expensive. And his upper-class public-school accent was very much in evidence. “Well,” he said at last, “I’ve had some daft things happen to me in my time, but—”
“Constable, I completely understand,” Anderson told him. “And this does appear ‘daft’, I agree. But now that I’m back I have many important things to do, and—”
“Back?”
Anderson sighed. “Look, I really haven’t the time to explain. Now, you’ve seen for yourself who I am. Do you really want me to phone the Chief Constable—who happens to be a personal friend of mine—and let him take charge of matters? Or may I now consider myself free to go?”
“You always have been free to do whatever you like, sir,” the policeman at once replied. “Within the law, of course, and as long as you do it on your feet and we know what’s what. But as for going somewhere—might I ask where? For if you ask me, sir, I’d say you’d first better … well, sort yourself out a bit—before going anywhere!”
Anderson looked down at himself. “I didn’t ask you,” he finally replied, “but … I’m forced to agree. Very well: first I shall visit the gent’s outfitters there, second a place where I can clean myself up, and then straight to my club.”
The constable took out his notebook. “Your club?”
“My residence,” said Anderson, and he gave his Knightsbridge address.
“Very well, sir,” said the policeman. “And you’re sure I can’t be of further assistance?”
“Perfectly sure,” the Minister answered. “Thank you very much.” He backed off a pace, turned and walked a little unsteadily through the sidewalk’s milling crush to the door of the outfitters, and entered.
“Sorry, Bertie.” An unsmiling shop assistant immediately loomed close.
“Bertie?” Anderson was nonplussed.
“Burlington Bertie, innit?” The Cockney tilted his head on one side. “From Bow? Come off it, Chief. Outside, if yer don’t mind. The bins are round the back.”
“Bins? I’m here to buy clothes!” Anderson waved money at the man, whose expression changed on the instant. And now the Minister was sure he was back home, because where nothing else would have worked, money had turned the trick in the blink of an eye.
He fitted himself out with shoes, socks, underclothes, a shirt, blazer and trousers, and a tie with a stripe which resembled as closely as possible that of the Old School. The clothes were off the peg and hardly of the finest cut, but they were clean, new, and inexpensive. Wearing them, Anderson gave a sigh of relief and began to feel much more like his old self.
His next stop was a public lavatory where he paid the attendant for a little privacy in a back room and did his best to spruce himself up. Finally, looking a lot more presentable if not one hundred percent himself, Anderson took a taxi to his club.
In the back of the taxi, he picked up a cast-aside newspaper and scanned the headlines. The Castle was big news again, apparently (only to be expected, really); but in fact the story contained nothing about Anderson himself and had an odd—no, an
old
—ring to it. He checked the date: July 1994. However crisp and new looking—
and
smudgy with ink, after all this time—the paper was in fact more than eighteen months out of date. That gave Anderson pause, and again alarm bells chimed in the back of his mind. The date was or should be (how long had he spent …
there
?) oh, late February or early March 1996. But the sun striking through the taxi’s windows felt more like a July sun to him. And the driver was in his shirt sleeves, with his window wound down.
old
—ring to it. He checked the date: July 1994. However crisp and new looking—
and
smudgy with ink, after all this time—the paper was in fact more than eighteen months out of date. That gave Anderson pause, and again alarm bells chimed in the back of his mind. The date was or should be (how long had he spent …
there
?) oh, late February or early March 1996. But the sun striking through the taxi’s windows felt more like a July sun to him. And the driver was in his shirt sleeves, with his window wound down.
“Driver.” Anderson leaned forward. “Er, would you happen to know today’s date?”
They’d reached Anderson’s club and the driver jumped out, opened his door for him. The Minister got out and paid the fare, and repeated, “Well? The date?”
The driver nodded, smiled, got back into his taxi. “That was today’s paper you was readin’, guv,” he said. “Bought it meself, I did. But don’t worry, there’s no extra charge!” And before Anderson could ask any further questions, he’d driven off.
“Today’s paper?” the Minister muttered, shaking his head. “Twenty months out of date?” Had it been a misprint? Could he have made a mistake? Had the driver perhaps made a mistake? Anderson snorted, headed for the canopied entrance to his rather exclusive club, and nodded his usual (or perhaps slightly more worried than usual) nod of greeting at the elderly but immaculate commissionaire. “Good afternoon, Joe.”
Joe Elkins, beribboned veteran of some ancient conflict or other, frowned back at him with a visible uncertainty and touched his chin wonderingly. “Er, good afternoon, Mister … ?”
God!
thought Anderson.
The man’s been on extended sick leave for so long he’s forgotten the names of the bloody members and residents! Why do we employ such doddering old cretins?
“It’s Mr. Anderson, Joe.” (No reaction.) “David Anderson? Minister? Or are you perhaps hinting that I may have forgotten your fiver this week, eh?”
thought Anderson.
The man’s been on extended sick leave for so long he’s forgotten the names of the bloody members and residents! Why do we employ such doddering old cretins?
“It’s Mr. Anderson, Joe.” (No reaction.) “David Anderson? Minister? Or are you perhaps hinting that I may have forgotten your fiver this week, eh?”
That did it. “Ah, of course, stupid of me!” the old fool at once sputtered. “Mr. Anderson, yes, certainly!” He nodded, beamed, squinted this way and that and looked Anderson up and down, and finally saluted. But as the Minister made to pass he placed himself just a little in the way and held out his hand.
“Later, Joe, later.” Anderson brushed by him. “On my way out, perhaps. This evening. But right now I’m in a terrible hurry.”
Old Joe Elkins
, he thought, frowning as he crossed the wide, airy foyer to the desk. The receptionist was absent (nothing unusual) but Anderson leaned across and lifted his key from its peg. Suite 37.
Old Joe Elkins, with a piece of shrapnel in his back, whisked off to the hospital, oh—how long ago? Seemed like years since he’d given the old fart his last weekly fiver!
But Old Joe’s face had been a familiar one, and everything familiar was like a warm, welcoming handshake.
, he thought, frowning as he crossed the wide, airy foyer to the desk. The receptionist was absent (nothing unusual) but Anderson leaned across and lifted his key from its peg. Suite 37.
Old Joe Elkins, with a piece of shrapnel in his back, whisked off to the hospital, oh—how long ago? Seemed like years since he’d given the old fart his last weekly fiver!
But Old Joe’s face had been a familiar one, and everything familiar was like a warm, welcoming handshake.
Almost sprinting up the wide, sweeping stairs, Anderson passed Lord Cromleigh coming down. “Good afternoon, Sir Harry,” he said, but without pausing. The old duffer was an ex-Minister of Defence and had a habit of cornering him for hours on end about the modern “shambles” at MOD. But glancing back he saw that Cromleigh had stopped and was looking up at him, looking in fact completely mystified.
“Eh? What? Hmm?” the portly lord was muttering.
Senile!
Anderson thought. But at the top of the stairs he almost collided with Simon Matherly, a mincing chat-show host whose too-easily earned millions couldn’t conceal the fact of his glaring indifference to women. They were neighbours (Matherly had Suite 38) but Anderson had always kept him at a distance; the creature positively gushed! But knowing Anderson’s preferences, Matherly had never much bothered to cultivate him. Now, however, the man literally fawned on him.
Anderson thought. But at the top of the stairs he almost collided with Simon Matherly, a mincing chat-show host whose too-easily earned millions couldn’t conceal the fact of his glaring indifference to women. They were neighbours (Matherly had Suite 38) but Anderson had always kept him at a distance; the creature positively gushed! But knowing Anderson’s preferences, Matherly had never much bothered to cultivate him. Now, however, the man literally fawned on him.
“
Dreadfully
sorry, Old Chap!” Matherly grasped Anderson’s hand in his own warm paw. “My fault
entirely
—should watch where I’m going. Almost had you flat on your back just then, which would never do, eh, eh?” Twinkling, he gently elbowed Anderson’s midriff. And then, low-voiced: “Er, you’re new here, aren’t you?”
Dreadfully
sorry, Old Chap!” Matherly grasped Anderson’s hand in his own warm paw. “My fault
entirely
—should watch where I’m going. Almost had you flat on your back just then, which would never do, eh, eh?” Twinkling, he gently elbowed Anderson’s midriff. And then, low-voiced: “Er, you’re new here, aren’t you?”
Anderson pushed him away, sidled around him. “The clothes may be new,” he replied, “but I’m not. You must have been drinking, Simon—or maybe it’s time you got your pince-nez seen to.” He hurried on to the top of the stairs and looked back. Both Cromleigh and Matherly were staring after him now. Were his clothes
that
different?
that
different?
Opposite the first-floor landing was the billiards room; its doors stood open and George (Brigadier) Carleton-Ffines, the club’s president and founder member, was engaged in a game with some snot-nosed aristocrat yuppie. Anderson remembered seeing this young man here once before some years ago. For all his money and silver-spoon background he’d been denied membership: something about his making the fatal mistake of beating the Brigadier at billiards! Perhaps he was now having another go at it. And maybe this time he’d let the old fraud win!
But the Brigadier was the president, and Anderson liked to keep on good terms with him. Actually, he believed Ffines quite genuinely liked him, and he had little doubt but that when he saw him he’d throw down his cue in astonishment and roar like a bull. “Now where the devil have
you
been, young Anderson?” he’d roar. “And what is all this twaddle about a castle or something up in Scotland that eats people? Eh, eh? I mean—damn me—Scotland’s full of the bloody things, but they don’t all run around eating people now do they? What?”
you
been, young Anderson?” he’d roar. “And what is all this twaddle about a castle or something up in Scotland that eats people? Eh, eh? I mean—damn me—Scotland’s full of the bloody things, but they don’t all run around eating people now do they? What?”
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