The Portable Door (1987) (22 page)

Mr Tanner nodded and shrugged, then closed the door after it.

“Right,” he said, turning and facing them.

It was that last nod and shrug that did it. They’d reminded him of when he was six or seven, at which point in his spiritual development he’d had to put up with weekly visits to Auntie Pauline’s, where he was invariably sent out into the garden to play with his obnoxious five-year-old cousin Gary. Every week it had been the same; as soon as Gary got bored with whatever game they were playing, he’d favour Paul with an evil grin, burst into hot, wet tears and run howling in through the French windows, bellowing ‘
Mummy, he hit me
’ at the top of his precociously loud voice. Every week, Mum and Dad and Aunt Pauline and Uncle Terry would accept the little bastard’s version without question, and Paul would be spoken to and sent to sit in the car, with nothing to eat or read, till it was time to go home; and every time, as Paul was being led away to solitary confinement, Mum would look at Auntie Pauline and nod and shrug in precisely that way.

Not this time
, Paul decided. He jumped to his feet and yelled, “What the bloody hell is going on?”

Mr Tanner frowned at him, as though he was a spelling mistake. “Sit down and be quiet,” he said, “and I’ll tell you.”

“Oh, right,” said Paul, and he perched on the edge of the front desk. But he couldn’t bring himself to let it go at that; he had to ask: “Mr Tanner,” he said. “Was that—was that really your mother?”

“Yes,” said Mr Tanner.

“Fine,” Paul said. “So does that mean you’re—”

Mr Tanner nodded. “A goblin, yes. If you want to be pedantic about it, I’m a quarter human on my father’s side, but that’s really none of your business.”

Sophie raised her, head and stared at him. She still looked as though she’d followed a large white rabbit with a pocket watch down a hole in the ground, but some colour was starting to return to her cheeks. “Mr Tanner,” she asked quietly, “why are there goblins in this building?”

Mr Tanner sighed. “They own it,” he said.

Sophie opened her mouth to say something, but didn’t. Mr Tanner pulled up a chair from the waiting area, sat down and lit a cigar.

“I suppose it’s our fault, really,” he said. “Actually, it’s something of a bone of contention in the partnership right now. Some of us feel that when we take on trainees, we ought to put them in the picture right away, to avoid God-awful fuck-ups like this one. Others like to see it as a sort of rite of passage cum intelligence test; if you’re bright enough to work for JWW, you ought to be able to figure it out for yourselves.” He flashed one of his trade-mark unpleasant grins. “Nice idea,” he said, “but with the calibre of the recruits we have to make do with nowadays, probably a bit unrealistic.”

He drew hard on his cigar and blew a smoke ring. “Anyhow,” he went on. “I think the best way to explain it to you is like this.” He reached in his pocket and took out some folded sheets of paper, handing one each to Sophie and Paul. At first sight, it looked like the firm’s standard letterhead. But then Paul noticed an extra line of fine print just below the company name and logo:

J.W. WELLS & CO.

SUPERNATURAL CONSULTANTS, PARANORMAL ENGINEERS, PRACTICAL METAPHYSICIANS

“Found it?” Mr Tanner said. “Splendid. Now, I’d like you to look at the partner’s names, on the right-hand side, under the By Appointment symbol. After each name, you’ll see a string of letters—qualifications, you don’t need to be told that. Got it?”

Paul looked across. The list read:

• John W. Wells MAA (Oxon) LLB FIPES Dip.N Humphrey Wells ASTP CHM
  
• Professor Theodorus Van Spee VULWIT ORE C.N. Suslowicz FSEE AIBG
  
• The Contessa Judith di Castel’Bianco QF FRICS
  
• Lt-Col Dietrich Wurmtoter RHG FICDGBI
  
• Dennis Tanner BA (Plymouth) BG
  

“All right,” Mr Tanner said, “let’s start at the top. MAA stands for Master of Arcane Arts. FIPES means Fellow of the Institute of Practical and Effective Sorcerers. Dip.N. is just Diploma in Necromancy—no big deal, you just fill in a form and send them a flyer and you get it in the mail by return. Humphrey Wells, now let’s see:”

ASTP is Associate of the Society of Thaumaturgical Practitioners; CIIM is something like Confrère de l’Institut International de la Magie—they’re a load of tossers if you ask me, but it impresses the French, and we’re always told we’ve got to think Europe these days. Anyway; I can’t remember what VULWIT stands for and if I could I couldn’t pronounce it—it means Theo Van Spee’s the something-or-other professor of witchcraft at the University of Leiden, which probably means bugger-all to you two, but take it from me, that’s hot stuff in the trade. The OBE was for services to horticulture, and God only knows how he came to get that. Cas Suslowicz: FSEE is Fellow of the Society of Elemental Engineers, AIBG is just Associate of the International Brotherhood of Giants, he got that just by being born—

Paul made a choking noise. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Giants,” Mr Tanner repeated. “Cas Suslowicz is a giant, hadn’t you—? No, I guess not.”

“But he’s—”

“He’s a
short
giant,” Mr Tanner said firmly. “Judy Castel’Bianco, that should be obvious even to you two.”

“No, it isn’t,” Sophie said dangerously.

“QF,” said Mr Tanner, “Queen of the Fey. You do know who the Fey are, don’t you? Hint: you’ve got them at the bottom of your garden, and I don’t mean a water feature. Rick Wurmtoter, he’s a Ritter des Heiligen Grals—that’s Knight of the Holy Grail to you—and a Fellow of the Institute of Chartered Dragonslayers of Great Britain and Ireland. The Lieutenant-Colonel bit is perfectly genuine too, if you count the Riders of Rohan as a proper army. And that’s about it.”

“What about you?” Sophie growled. “BG.”

Mr Tanner beamed at her, revealing many unusual teeth. “Boss Goblin,” he said.

There was a second or so of complete silence. Then Paul asked, “Excuse me, but what does it all mean?”

Mr Tanner clicked his tongue. “Oh, come on,” he said. “Right, from the top: Humph Wells is a sorcerer; he does mostly commercial and banking these days, but he still keeps his hand in with conjuring and raising spirits, mainly for the Far Eastern market and the States. Theo Van Spee is probably the best wizard currently working in the private sector—space⁄time stuff principally, a lot of consultancy work, and of course the whole of the information technology side. Cas Suslowicz is almost entirely construction and civil engineering, as you’d expect. Judy—well, obviously, she looks after our client portfolio in the entertainment sector. Rick Wurmtoter’s our resident hero, basically he does pest control, mostly dragons—”

“Dragons,” Paul repeated.

“Dragons. Even you’ve heard of dragons.”

“Yes, but they don’t—”

“Dragons,” said Mr Tanner wearily, “are attracted to accumulations of wealth. These days, that’s mostly museums, art galleries and, of course, banks. This week he’s off dealing with a nasty infestation in the vaults of the Credit Lyonnais, they’re hoping he can get shot of the buggers before the Euro goes into free fall on Wall Street. And I’m a goblin,” he added, with a smirk. “But you know that already.”

Paul knew Mr Tanner was waiting for one of them to ask; he reckoned it might as well be him. “Um, what do goblins do?” he said.

“Ah.” Mr Tanner stubbed out his cigar on the leg of his chair and lit another. “Goblins live in the bowels of the earth, digging vast tunnels that go down to the outer skin of the magma core. In other words,” he went on, “minerals. Which means, where I come from in New South Wales, bauxite. Which,” he added with a particularly nasty grin, “is why I hired you.”

Paul’s mouth flopped open. “Me?”

“You. You’re a natural scryer, as you’ve just proved. Ninety per cent success rate, that’s really very good.”

Paul didn’t know what to say. “You mean, those photos of bits of desert—”

Mr Tanner nodded. “You looked at them, and instinctively you knew where the bauxite deposits were. Don’t go getting ideas, though, that’s what we’re paying you for. You, on the other hand,” he went on, looking at Sophie, “Theo Van Spee reckons you’ve got what it takes to be a seer. Coming from him, that’s a real compliment, and don’t you forget it.”

“I’m honoured,” Sophie grunted. “But I don’t think I want to, thanks.”

“You don’t want to,” Mr Tanner repeated.

“That’s right.”

Mr Tanner’s face stretched into an enormous toothy grin; and Paul, staring at it in horrified fascination, reckoned he could definitely see the family resemblance. “Tough,” Mr Tanner said. “It’s not up to you.”

“Isn’t it?” Sophie replied.

“No. You signed a contract.”

Sophie laughed. “Fine,” she said. “Sue me. I’ve got sixty pounds in the bank and fifteen pounds and some pennies in the Post Office; oh yes, and a Premium Bond. You can have the lot for all I care, but I’m not coming back here again, not ever.”

Mr Tanner shook his head. “Never sign a legal document without reading it,” he said. “Clause 3, paragraph five, I can’t remember the exact wording but the gist of it is, if you try and quit, we can force you to work for us, any way we choose.” His eyes flashed red, just like his mother’s. “You really don’t want to find out how we do that.”

Sophie shook her head. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “Really.” Mr Tanner shrugged. “Then you leave me no choice, I’m delighted to say. Now then. When I snap my fingers three times, you’re going to take all your clothes off and dance the Dying Swan. Ready?” He clicked his fingers, once, twice, three times. At the third click, the expression on Sophie’s face suddenly changed, from grim defiance to total and unspeakable horror. Her fingers spread like starfish, as she fought to keep her hands by her sides, then they were at her throat, and she slowly undid the top button of her blouse.

“No,” she whispered. “Please.”

Mr Tanner laughed. That was too much for Paul; he jumped up and reached for the stapler, but Mr Tanner turned his head and looked at him. At once, Paul felt an unbearable pain in his arm, as if someone had caught it in a huge pair of red-hot tongs and was pulling it towards his face. He watched as his index finger straightened and started to move inexorably towards and then up his left nostril. He could feel it reaming and twisting. “All right,” he gasped, “all right. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Mr Tanner said indulgently, and he snapped his fingers again. Simultaneously, Paul and Sophie felt their arms relax and flop to their sides. “And that’s me being nice,” Mr Tanner added. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood. Sometimes I can be a bit of an old crosspatch, and I don’t think you’d like that. Oh, and while I think of it; if you were toying with the idea of trying to involve the police, or the industrial tribunal, or the newspapers or the Esther Rantzen show, I wouldn’t bother if I were you. Even if you managed to tell them about what you think just happened here, they won’t believe you. But it wouldn’t come to that, because the moment you opened your mouth or tried to post the letter or send the e–mail, you’d find yourself crouched on the floor with your thumb in your mouth singing ‘Give My Regards to Broadway’. I take the view that being a really evil bastard isn’t just a job, it’s a vocation.”

Up to that point, if asked, Paul would have told you he knew perfectly well what being scared felt like; he knew scared from nothing, thank you very much, in fact he could write a postgraduate thesis on it: fear of heights, spiders, flying, getting beaten up, getting caught, being late, being laughed at, earwigs, loud noises, pretty well anything you cared to name except Mary Poppins and breakfast cereal. As he sat on the front desk and stared at Mr Tanner, however, he realised that hitherto he’d known about being scared the way a bumble-bee knows about flying to Andromeda. A quick sideways glance told him that Sophie was thinking along much the same lines. Under other circumstances, finding something they had in common would have pleased him no end. On this occasion, it didn’t seem all that significant.

“And anyhow,” Mr Tanner went on, “you may think you want to pack it in, but you’re wrong. Once you’ve got over this daft little culture-shock thing, you’ll realise you’ve lucked in to the most fantastic career anybody could ever wish for. Think about it, will you? You’re going to be
wizards
, you’re going to learn to do
magic
. There’s a hundred million kids from Saigon to Greenland who’d give their PlayStation for a chance like you’ve got. So,” Mr Tanner continued, smiling agreeably, “let’s have less of the long faces and more of the cheerful enthusiasm. Are we happy? Because if we aren’t,” he added, “we soon will be. Well?”

“We’re happy,” Paul and Sophie mumbled in unison.

“Are we excited? Looking forward to a whole galaxy of thrilling new opportunities?”

They nodded.

“That’s all right, then.” Mr Tanner stood up. “Sorry if I’ve cut into your free time, but I think this exercise has been useful. Now bugger off and I don’t want to see you back here till nine sharp Monday.” He crossed to the door and took out a bunch of keys. “Oh,” he said, “one last thing—particularly as far as you’re concerned, Ms Pettingell. Goblins aren’t all that different from people. Scare the shit out of them, and you may find they get panicky. Leave them alone, and they won’t bother you. And it’s particularly important you don’t go getting on the wrong side of this particular colony, because as I said a minute or so ago, they’re actually our landlords here; they own it, let it to us at a peppercorn rent, strictly on the understanding that we see to it that when the doors are locked, they can come out of the tunnels where they live, run about, have a bit of harmless fun after a long day digging ore with their fingernails, without bloody great big humans jumping out at them, frightening them half to death. Not a lot to ask, I think you’ll agree. Also,” he added grimly, “they happen to be family, and I’d like you to ask yourselves how you’d like it if huge ugly monsters barged into your parents’ lounge and started shoving them around. Really, it’s just basic good manners and consideration for others. Understood?” He unlocked the door, and opened it for them. “Right,” he said, “off you go. Ms Pettingell, if you get a move on and don’t dawdle, you’ll find you’re in plenty of time to catch the
6:05
from London Bridge to Denmark Hill, which just happens to be running twenty minutes late. That means you should get to the Spaniel and Spigot just as the warm-up band’s grinding to a halt, and I promise you, you won’t have missed anything.” He grinned, and winked insultingly. “Have a nice weekend,” he said. “Be good.”