The Portable Door (1987) (31 page)

Long, chilly silence. Then Sophie said, “Can we go now, please?” and Paul didn’t need scrying stones or imp-revealing mirrors or not-chocolate-covered dragon-droppings to know that she was on her way to meet the performance potter; furthermore, he suspected that if Mr Wurmtoter knew a tenth as much about people as he presumably did about dragons, he’d have taken one look at the cold glare in her eye and jumped out of the window. Paul let her go first, and took care to stay several paces behind her all the way back to their office.

§

Paul had believed in the existence of six a.m. for many years, just as he’d always believed in the yeti and the Loch Ness monster; in the same way, he’d always devoutly hoped that he’d never have to confront any of them face to face. But, somehow or other, he made it to the office door on time, to find Sophie already waiting. She was wearing a suit that had probably belonged to her grandmother, who’d presumably kept it for funerals.

“Hello,” she muttered in her best doomed voice.

“Hello,” he replied, hoping the door would open. It didn’t.

“Well,” Sophie went on, making a mime routine out of consulting her watch, “
we’re
here on time.”

Paul nodded. “He did say six o’clock, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so. Of course, he could have meant six o’clock in the evening.”

“No. He said morning.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought he said.”

There were rather more people about in the streets than Paul had expected, and quite a few of them turned to look at Sophie. None of them laughed out loud, which was something. Nevertheless, he could feel the tension building up, and decided that he’d better defuse it by saying something before there was any bloodshed. “How’s things?” he asked awkwardly.

She looked at him. “How do you mean?”

“Oh, generally.”

“All right,” she replied. A long silence, definitely a moment, possibly even a moment and a quarter. Then she scowled and said, “I thought you weren’t talking to me.”

“What?” Paul felt himself panicking. Not a good idea; today was likely to be a long day, quite difficult enough as it was without atmospheres and melodrama. “No,” he said. “I mean, aren’t I? I thought I was.”

“Really. You haven’t said a word to me for weeks, apart from: “Pass the stapler’ and:’Have you finished with the Sellotape?””

“Oh,” Paul said. “I mean, I hadn’t realised. No offence. I guess I’ve been, I mean, my mind’s been on other things, I suppose.”

She gave him a look you could have kebabed sliced lamb on. “So you aren’t angry with me or anything?”

“No, of course not.”

“Fine.” She shrugged slightly, body language for
You lying bastard
. “That’s all right, then. This is stupid.”

“Sorry?”

“Making us get here at the crack of dawn and then keeping us hanging about on the doorstep.”

“Yes,” Paul said.

Moments were coming as thick as flies on a cow-pat. “So,” she said, “how about you?”

“Me? Oh, I’m fine.”

“You said you’d been worried about something.”

He made a show of frowning. “No, nothing in particular.”

“You said your mind’s been on other things.”

“Oh, right, yes.” He nodded one time too many. “Just things in general, really. You know—goblins and magic and stuff.”

She sighed. “What do you make of it all?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I mean, it’s all weird and horrible, but we’re sort of stuck, aren’t we?”

“Are we?”

“I reckon so. I mean, if we stay away from the office, Mr Tanner’ll have us doing revolting things in the street.”

“I suppose so.” She looked at her watch again, as if it was all its fault. “Actually,” she said, “it’s been absolutely terrible, ever since that horrible evening when we got locked in. I’ve been thinking, if I can’t talk to someone about it soon, I’m going to go mad. I even thought about telling my parents.”

“Did you?”

She gave him a don’t-be-so-stupid look. “Another bad thing is, I suppose I ought to be able to tell Shaz, I mean, isn’t that what relationships are all about—?”

“Shaz? Oh, yes, sorry.”

“My boyfriend,” Sophie said icily. “I thought I told you—”

“Yes, of course. Sorry.”

“Well.” She furrowed her thick eyebrows. “I should be able to tell him, but somehow I can’t. I keep trying to, but for some reason I can’t. I keep thinking he’ll laugh, or he’ll think I’m mad or stoned. It’s making things really difficult between us.”

Paul didn’t shout: “Yippee!” at the top of his voice, or dance a hornpipe, or even grin like a dog. He was very proud of himself for that. Instead, he mumbled something about seeing how awkward that must be.

“Awkward,” Sophie repeated. “You bet it’s bloody awkward. No, all he wants to talk about is all these shows and gigs he’s got lined up, you’d think it was really important; and the bad thing is, when it comes down to it, all he’s really interested in is
money
.”

“Ah. It pays well, then, performance ceramics?”

She shook her head. “The money’s absolute rubbish,” she said. “But every time he thinks he’s going to get a show or something, he keeps on about how this time maybe it’s going to be the start of something big, maybe he can get a regular spot at this pub or if he goes over well at this fair maybe it’ll lead on to other bookings with the same people. He’s obsessed with it, really.”

“(
Earning a living, you mean?
”) Paul didn’t say. “Sounds like he’s taking it pretty seriously,” he suggested.

“Well, that’s stupid,” she replied. “Either you’re going to be unconventional and a free spirit and not give a damn about the stupid boring stuff, or you might as well get a job in an office.”

It occurred to Paul that, just possibly, Shaz the performance potter was suddenly taking an interest in boring, shameful money because he was thinking of settling down somewhat, as people do when they’re embarking on a serious, long-term relationship. A hallucinatory vision of his mental image of Pot Boy (who in his mind’s eye bore a strong family resemblance to the Tanner clan) snooping round Laura Ashley in search of curtain material for the bus windscreen knocked him off his axis for a moment or so, and it cost him a certain degree of effort to get back to reality. “I guess so,” he said, and hesitated. Here was a heaven-sent opportunity to start tapping in a wedge or two, but somehow he didn’t feel like it. In fact, if he had to be brutally honest, he was on Pot Boy’s side. “It must be difficult, though,” he said cautiously. “Getting the balance right, I mean. Artistic integrity on the one hand, tomorrow’s shredded wheat and toilet rolls on the other. That’s just Life.”

She let go another sigh. “Well,” she said, “I didn’t really expect you’d understand.”

For a fraction of a second, just long enough for a photon to travel a yard, Paul found himself wondering whether maybe the recipient of the rawest deal in this whole emotional nexus might actually be the performance potter. But he swatted the stray thought with the rolled-up newspaper of self-pity. “Not my line of country, really,” he muttered. “Hey up, I think something’s happening.”

Ironmongery rattled on the other side of the door, and Mr Wells appeared, shutting the door quickly behind him. He was carrying a large suitcase, and there was an even larger duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“Right,” he said, in a slightly breathless voice, “time we were getting on.” At precisely that moment, a large yellow minibus pulled up at the kerb. Paul caught an alarming glimpse of red eyes and tusks before Mr Wells hustled them both across to the back doors.

The bus turned out to be comfortable, verging on luxurious; a deep leather gentleman’s-club armchair for Mr Wells, two airliner seats for Sophie and Paul. On a table in the middle, which somehow managed to stay perfectly still as the bus pulled several Gs tearing away from the kerb, was a distinctly fancy Continental break fast—croissants, Danish pastries, thin slices of German sausage and Dutch cheese, those little French buns with chocolate bits in, a jug of orange juice and a flask of coffee. “Help yourselves,” Mr Wells muttered, opening the suitcase and pulling out a sheaf of papers, “I’ve already had mine.”

After a minute or so, Sophie leaned forward and poured herself half a glass of orange juice. Paul, who was suddenly very hungry, wanted to pile in and start stuffing his face, with particular regard to the choccy buns, but somehow didn’t like to. In the end he picked up the nearest croissant and nibbled it, unbuttered. The bus seemed to be doing at least ninety, with frequent sudden decelerations for traffic lights and zebra crossings, but the food and the table it rested on didn’t shift so much as a millimetre.

“It’ll take us about five hours to get there,” Mr Wells said. “I should have said, bring something to read. A bit later I’ll fill you in on what we’re going to be doing, but I’d better just catch up with this bumf first. Feel free to catch up on your sleep, if you like.”

Five hours
, Paul thought;
oh, shit
. Sitting still for hours on end in moving vehicles was one of the things he was least good at, though he wouldn’t have been able to read a book even if he’d brought one. For her part, Sophie swilled down her orange juice, opened her bag (first time he’d seen her with one) and produced a fat A-format paperback;
Slipware Against Franco
, he read sideways,
Ceramic Trends During The Spanish Civil War
. The fact that she put it away again five minutes later without even marking her place was the best thing that’d happened to him all day. He didn’t feel particularly sleepy, but at some stage he must have closed his eyes, because he slid into a dream. He dreamed that he was sitting in an airliner seat in a yellow minivan driving at some unthinkable speed through the outskirts of London in the early morning; and sitting next to him was the thin girl (whose name for the moment escaped him) and she was fast asleep, dead to the world; so she couldn’t hear the conversation that was going on between Professor Van Spee and the tall, gaunt-looking woman with the New England accent, who he was pretty sure was the Countess Judy, the entertainment-industry partner and rightful Queen of the Fey.

“I still reckon we should do something,” Countess Judy said. “It’s not right, is all. We can’t let him get away with it, not again.”

The Professor pulled a wry face. “It was necessary,” he said. “One of us had to go. It happened to be John. That’s the business for you.”

“Was it really necessary?” The Countess pursed her thin lips. “I’m not so sure about that. We’ve really only got his word for it, at that.”

“He wouldn’t lie. Not to us.”

The Countess thought about that. “And those poor boys,” she said. “Even if you’re right about John, that was going too far.”

“It’s the business,” the Professor said uncomfortably.

“For pity’s sake, Theo.” The Countess didn’t seem at all pleased with him. “Well, I’m not going to argue with you, not now. But it’s definitely not going to happen again, not with these two. For one thing, they’re more valuable.”

The Professor smiled. “Interesting,” he said. “If they weren’t quite so
valuable
—” he paused on the word,“—would you be quite so vehement in their defence?”

“That’s a nasty thing to say, Theo. You know me better than that.”

Professor Van Spee acknowledged his fault with a slight dip of his head. “Also irrelevant,” he added. “The point you make is entirely valid, they
are
valuable, and I wouldn’t like to see anything happen to them. That said, I’m not convinced that anything will. Of course, I don’t have your special insight in these matters—”

“Theo,” the Countess warned him.

“All I’m saying is,” the Professor went on, “there’s no real cause for concern at this particular moment. For sure, they’re vulnerable—especially the boy, of course—but that’s not the point. For one thing, there’s no proof, not even any evidence, that the boy’s actually got the wretched thing. Even if he has got it, that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s used it, or even that he knows what it is, or what it does. I would imagine that if he did contrive to figure it out, he’d only use it as a sort of toy, and get tired of it fairly soon. Of course,” he added, “that wouldn’t even be an issue if we hadn’t lost the blasted object in the first place.”

That was obviously a sore point with the Countess; she scowled before replying: “Theo, don’t be deliberately obtuse. Dennis had them both tidying out the strongroom. That’s as good as drawing them a map with a big red X marked on it.”

The professor raised an eyebrow. “You think it’s in the strongroom?”

“Well, for heaven’s sake. Where else would it be?”

“I don’t know. If I knew, it wouldn’t be lost. All I know is, we’ve both searched that room from top to bottom a hundred times, and we couldn’t find it.”

“Of course
we
couldn’t find it, as well you know. Stop talking to me like I’m a little kid. I think the boy’s got it, and he knows the boy’s got it, and that’s what all this is about. And we ought to do something.”

The professor looked at her down his nose. “What, exactly?”

“Warn them, obviously.”

“With respect.” The professor rubbed his forehead, as if the conversation was giving him a headache. “Suppose we do warn him, what on earth could we say?
Beware?
Anything more specific than that would be an unpardonable breach of professional ethics. And if we’re wrong, it’d be disastrous.”

For her part, the Countess was losing patience. “Have it your own way, then,” she said. “After all, it’s not on my conscience, whatever happens. I can always simply walk away and let the whole lot of you get on with it. In fact, I’m sorely tempted.”

The Professor smiled. “I don’t think so,” he said. “What would you do, for one thing? I can’t honestly see you sitting on a toadstool playing on the pan pipes all day long. You’d be bored. It was boredom that led you to join the firm in the first place.”

“There’re worse things than boredom,” the Countess replied. “But I can see there’s no point arguing with you, your mind’s made up. I still say we should warn them, or at least the boy.”

“No.” The professor raised his voice, which seemed somewhat out of character. “We should leave well alone. You too,” he added meaningfully. “If you’re toying with the idea of telling him yourself—”