In Your Dreams (42 page)

‘Idiot,' the bicycle replied. ‘Feckless, irresponsible clown. God only knows what you thought you were playing at, killing yourself like that when she's relying on you. No consideration. And now you're snuggled up here nice and cosy with this ... this
creature
, all because of a stupid door that you yourself saw fit to nail shut. A fine last, best hope you turned out to be,' the bicycle added nastily; then it reversed, backed up ten yards, and shot at the door like an arrow.

Steel is ever so much harder than lead. Even so, a soft lead bullet will bust its way through a steel plate if it's travelling fast enough, but there won't be much left of it by the time it comes out the other side. The same principle applies to bicycles and substantial pine-board doors. In general terms, the door didn't come out of it too badly; it was still in one piece and sitting on its hinges. The bicycle, on the other hand, had quite obviously come to the end of its long, eventful life. Its front wheel was bent almost double, its slim, elegant structure of spokes tangled like a crushed daddy-long-legs; its forks, handlebars and frame were hopelessly buckled, one pedal had snapped off and the other one stuck out at a disturbingly abrupt angle. When it spoke, its voice was soft and hoarse.

‘Get that fucking door shut,' it whispered, ‘before they start coming through.'

Paul just stood and gaped; he'd been away so long that the cashier's office seemed improbably unreal, like something out of a dream. Fortunately, the fake Melze still had her wits about her; she slammed the door and wedged it shut with a chair.

‘Thanks,' Paul said.

‘What? Oh, it was nothing,' the fake Melze said; but Paul hadn't been talking to her. He was kneeling beside the dying bike, and for some bizarre reason there were tears in his eyes. ‘Thanks,' he repeated. ‘How are you feeling?'

‘Guess,' the bike sighed faintly.

‘You'll be all right,' Paul said, impulsively reaching out a hand, then hesitating. ‘We'll get you straightened and welded and whatever—'

The bike's brittle laugh faded into a coughing fit. ‘Don't be bloody stupid,' it said. ‘And shut up and listen, I haven't got long. And don't think I saved you because I'm noble and brave, or because I like you. I don't. I think you're a self-centred little shit.'

Paul shrugged. ‘You're probably right,' he said.

‘I
know
I'm right. You're a pathetic little toad with a mental age of twelve, and God only knows what she sees in you. But she loves you, so I didn't have any choice. Which means you're safe and I'm dying. Call that justice? Because I don't.'

‘Hang on,' Paul said. ‘Who loves me?'

The bike groaned. ‘You're not helping,' it said. ‘You're not making me feel better about giving my life to save you. I mean, sad wimpy loser's bad enough, but why have you got to be abysmally stupid as well? You know perfectly well who loves you, moron; or if you don't, then I really have fucked up. Come on, three guesses. And don't say your mum, or so help me I'll get up on my hind wheel and run you over.'

It was a palpably empty threat; the bike's back wheel wasn't in much better shape than the front. ‘I don't know,' Paul wailed. ‘I mean,
she
doesn't, she's not even real so she doesn't count. And Sophie—' The bike shuddered; Paul had forgotten that it was violently allergic to names. ‘She doesn't love me, or she'd never have buggered off to Ca— the New World,' he amended desperately. Luckily, that didn't seem to count as a name; that, or the bike was in so much pain already that it didn't notice. ‘So who does that leave?'

‘What are you talking about, buggered off?' the bike said. Its voice was pitifully weak now, but it could still just about convey utter contempt. ‘She never went anywhere. She's still here.'

Paul shook his head. ‘No, that's not right. She got a transfer to the Hol— the office in the place where they make films. Just so that she could get away from me.'

‘No.' The bike's death rattle was a faint graunching of gears. ‘Never left. Still here. Up to you now, must find—' With a feeble twitch, the bike slumped. The back wheel spun for a couple of slow revolutions, and then was still.

‘It's dead,' said the fake Melze, rather superfluously. ‘Poor thing.'

Paul swung round. He couldn't see very clearly because of the water in his eyes. ‘Don't—' he started to say, then realised he wasn't sure exactly what he wanted her not to do. Anything, probably; after all, she was the enemy, wasn't she? ‘Don't pretend you're sorry,' he said. ‘Just don't, right? In fact, it'd be better if you just went away somewhere.'

‘I can't.' She sounded very stiff, almost formal. ‘I can't,' she repeated. ‘This is my office. There's work I ought to be doing.'

‘Don't be ridiculous,' Paul snapped. ‘You can't stay here like nothing's happened, not now. For God's sake, you're not even human.'

‘Maybe not.' Her voice was like small chunks chipped off a large, dangerous iceberg. ‘But let's see, now. Starting with the partners, we've got a goblin, a giant and the Queen of the Fey. Then there's Mr Shumway, he's a dwarf. And you're a pig, so really it doesn't look like being human's exactly a requirement, is it? In fact, they've probably only got a couple of token humans so as not to get in trouble with the equal-opportunities people. If you want to get rid of me, you'll have to do better than that.'

‘Can't be bothered,' Paul said; his mind, slow as Friday night on the M25 but not without a certain tenacity of purpose, was focused on something that the bike had said before it died. ‘Why did it say Sophie never left here?' he asked. ‘It sounded so certain, it must've known something.'

‘Search me,' said the fake Melze.

‘Some other time, when I've got a ten-foot pole handy. Come on, I bet you know the answer. Is Sophie in Hollywood or isn't she?'

‘How should I know? I've never even met her.'

Paul had no idea how he knew, whether it was something in the voice or the eyes, a slight uneasiness of manner or a tell-tale body movement, but he knew that she was lying, as surely as he knew anything. ‘That's not true, is it?' he said. ‘You know where she is.'

‘No, I don't. Look,' she added, with just the faintest wobble in her voice, ‘if it's suddenly so important, why don't you phone the Hollywood office and ask them?'

‘Time difference,' Paul said quietly. ‘It's the middle of the night over there, they'd all be asleep.' And suddenly he had the answer. ‘They'd all be fast asleep, having sweet dreams. So of course,' he went on, looking her straight in the eye, ‘now would be the perfect time to call them, wouldn't it? I mean, no good ringing later on, when it's daytime over there and they're all awake.'

‘What are you talking about?' she asked, taking a step back. ‘Look, you definitely ought to go. What if Countess Judy comes in? You aren't supposed to be here. And look at your arm,' she added quickly. ‘You'd better get that seen to, it looks bad.'

Paul couldn't help looking down – at his wrists, which were caked with dried blood where he'd slashed the veins with his Girl Guides penknife. At the time, he hadn't really noticed quite how much blood was coming out of the wound; the state of his jacket sleeves and trousers hadn't exactly been uppermost in his mind. The fake Melze had a good point there. He looked a mess. And what if the cuts hadn't healed? Nasty thought; what if the slightest sudden movement started them off bleeding again? Now that he had something very specific to live for, it wouldn't do to go suddenly dropping dead from catastrophic blood loss, just for being careless.

‘You're probably right,' he said slowly. ‘What's the time? I took my watch off earlier, for obvious reasons.'

She glanced at the clock on the wall, just above his head. ‘Ten past five,' she said. ‘We'd both better be going. You wouldn't want to be around those goblins smelling of fresh blood. They're only house-trained up to a point, you know.'

Another valid consideration. Paul nodded. ‘Will you be here tomorrow?' he asked.

The fake Melze looked away. ‘I don't know,' she said. ‘I don't know what's going to happen to me now. Obviously I've screwed up on my main job, but they still need a cashier.'

That was a highly significant remark too, in its way, but Paul filed it away for later consideration. ‘Just stay out of my way, all right?' he said. ‘If I want to talk to you, I'll find you. Otherwise . . .'

‘I understand,' she said, and her voice was empty. ‘For what it's worth,' she added, ‘I really do love you. And I know it doesn't count, but it's still true.'

Paul looked at her. She was very beautiful, and more like Melze than the real Melze could ever be; because the real Melze would be a stranger, whereas this one had been assembled from bits and pieces of his own mind, like a conceptual MFI wardrobe. ‘Like it matters,' he said coldly, and left the room.

Chapter Thirteen

H
ospital
, Paul thought; but he didn't actually know where the nearest one was, and he didn't exactly relish the prospect of explaining how he'd come by two slashed wrists, either. Ricky Wurmtoter, then; Paul had got the impression that Ricky knew a fair bit about treating wounds, reasonably enough. Besides, he had a certain amount to report, though he wasn't quite sure what to tell and what to leave out. But if anywhere was safe with Countess Judy prowling about, it'd be wherever Ricky was. After all, Ricky was a hero. A real one.

He was so preoccupied with this train of thought that he turned a sharp corner without looking where he was going, and collided with a life form. He couldn't see who he'd run into, but the sensation of his chin crunching on the top of a head told him who his victim was. Mr Tanner.
Shit
. ‘Sowwy.' Paul couldn't talk properly with a jarred chin. Mr Tanner took a step back to disentangle himself, and scowled. His glasses were ever so slightly askew, which gave him a small-boy, Just-William look that would've had Paul in a fit of giggles in any other context.

‘Idiot,' Mr Tanner said. ‘Why can't you look where you're—?'

He tailed off, and Paul guessed that he'd caught sight of all the dried blood. Too late now to try hiding his hands behind his back. ‘What the hell have you been up to?' Mr Tanner demanded.

Paul's mind emptied like a department store during a bomb scare. ‘Cut myself,' he mumbled.

‘Amazingly, I'd guessed that. What on? And if you tell me it's a paper cut, I'll turn you into a rat and let you loose in Crufts.'

Paul thought quickly. It was just as pointless as thinking long and hard, but it wasted less time. ‘Desk drawer,' he said. ‘There's a sort of jagged edge where the runner's a bit buckled. But it's okay, just a scratch.'

Mr Tanner's eyes bored holes in him. ‘Hint for you,' he said. ‘Never go into politics or the legal profession. You've got the stupidity, but your lying skills'll let you down every time.' He grinned. ‘If you don't want to tell me, that's fine. I was only concerned for your welfare.'

‘Protecting your investment, more like,' Paul said, before he had a chance to stop himself. For some reason, Mr Tanner was impressed, or amused, or both. He raised both eyebrows, and didn't grin but
smiled
.

‘Very good,' Mr Tanner said. ‘Did you figure it out for yourself, or did someone tell you?'

‘It wasn't hard to work out,' Paul replied. ‘I knew there had to be some reason why you wouldn't let us resign.'

‘Is that right? Very shrewd of you. Which reminds me,' Mr Tanner added, reverting to his default grin. ‘Bauxite. We think we've got a sniff of some pretty decent deposits in Malawi, but we're having trouble pinning them down. Too many trees in the way, or something. I'll send Christine up with some satellite pics. Try not to bleed on them if you can help it.'

For a moment, Paul wondered whether Mr Tanner's newfound respect for him would be further increased if he told him where he could insert his bauxite. He weighed the evidence and decided against. ‘All right,' he said. ‘But first I've got to see Mr Wurmtoter.'

‘What? Oh, I forgot, you were minding the store for him while he was away.' Mr Tanner shook his head. ‘You know, the hero stuff's all very well, but I've got to look at the bottom line, and compared with minerals, the return on expense of time is pretty pathetic. Really, we're only in that sector as a service to our bigger clients. When the time comes for you to choose, I'd forget about it if I were you. Just because you can do it doesn't mean you have to.'

Mr Tanner walked on, leaving Paul staring after him. Was it possible that Tanner didn't know what was going on? Or was he just being his usual obnoxious self? Paul thought about it for a bit, then decided it wasn't important; not compared with, say, whether he'd still be alive at the end of the week.

Almost inevitably, Ricky Wurmtoter wasn't in his office. Paul swore, then trudged down to reception, taking care to keep his hands in his pockets.

‘Do you know where Mr Wurmtoter's got to?' he asked the dazzling redhead behind the desk, only remembering at the last moment who she really was.

‘Not a clue,' Mr Tanner's mum said, with a click of the tongue. ‘Phone's been going for him all bloody day,' she added, holding up a thick wad of While-You-Were-Out notes. ‘What happened to you, by the way? Cut yourself shaving, or is that ketchup from a leaky burger?'

Paul sighed. ‘None of your business,' he snapped. Then he remembered something else. ‘While I'm here,' he said, as casually as he could manage. ‘You remember that cardboard box full of junk I got from my uncle a while back? You said you'd look after it for me.'