The Better Mousetrap (32 page)

Hell hath no fury like a true believer forced to revise his basic assumptions. Standing in the gore-flecked Carringtons basement with the blood of spectral warriors trickling down the inside of his trouser leg, Colin Gomez made his grand renunciation and declaration of war. It was a noble moment and he couldn’t help feeling rather good about it, but once the emotion had thinned out a bit he also couldn’t help noticing how frail his position was. Such resources as his position as a partner in the firm afforded him couldn’t be relied on for much longer; Amelia would be after him first thing in the morning, wanting to be told that Emily was dead, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to fend her off for very long. After that, he could only think of one possible ally he could call on. Assuming (sardonic little laugh) that he could find her.

Well. Maybe he couldn’t, but a phone signal probably could. Carringtons equipped their staff with Kawaguchiya NP6530s, total network coverage guaranteed everywhere; deep in the Earth’s magma layer, the craters of the Moon, even railway tunnels. And one thing a girl of Emily’s generation would never ever do, no matter what the circumstances, was switch off her mobile.

Colin Gomez took out his pocket diary and looked up her number.

Better, they say, to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

Bullshit, Frank reflected, staring at the wooden rafters of the cabin. That’s a bit like saying it’s better to fall off the roof of a very tall building than to have stayed on the ground.

A man can get sick of the sight of rafters, even his own. But there was nothing else to claim his attention, so he carried on staring.

Love, he thought. What a bloody silly idea. Investing all your hopes, the whole point of living, in someone you’ve only just met, who you know next to nothing about, is on a par with putting all your money on a racehorse you’ve picked out of the list in the morning paper using a blindfold and a pin. Before he’d met her-well, his life had been empty and meaningless, but it hadn’t really bothered him so terribly much. He’d had the Door, after all; he’d amused himself with sightseeing trips through time and space, earned a little money, done a little collateral good. Now, having loved and lost, he had no interest in metaphysical tourism. No point. The landscape in the background might change, but he’d stay the same. Even the best holiday is no fun if you can’t stand the person you go with.

To have loved and lost; it made it sound like a competition we loved, I lost. If so, then in love as in freestyle knife-fighting, the silver medal isn’t worth having. Alternatively, to have lost your love sounds like sheer carelessness. (Where did you have it last? Have you checked all your pockets?) He hadn’t mislaid it. It hadn’t fallen down the back of the sofa. He’d offered her his heart, and she’d trodden on it.

That’s me, Frank thought. Squashed-rather than brokenhearted, with nothing to do and no place to go. That’s not tragic, not even sad. It’s just plain silly.

He still had the Door. No job running errands for Mr Sprague, though. But so what? The world was full of opportunities. Other insurance companies, for example. Pick one at random-that was how he’d first met George Sprague-make them an offer they couldn’t refuse, back to work. And who knew; maybe the genuine girl of his dreams was already there waiting for him, wherever there proved to be. More than one of her, even. For all he knew, they were queuing up somewhere, like people waiting to audition for The X Factor. Of course, he could stay exactly where he was, staring at rafters until he died of old age. Or he could get up off his arse, unfurl the Door like Columbus’s sails, and go exploring for strange new worlds.

Might as well, he decided. Nothing better to do.

Frank stood up and reached in his pocket for the Door. It wasn’t there.

In a sense, it was exactly what he’d been hoping for. A few minutes ago, if asked what he wanted most in the world, he’d probably have said, ‘To stop moping around thinking about Emily.’ Fine; another wish granted ahead of schedule by the genie of the rafters. Thoughts of lost love and post-romantic nihilism evaporated out of his brain like spit on a hot stove.

He performed the frantic, pathetic ballet of the man who’s just lost something: the pirouetting round and round, the pocket-patting, the ratting-terrier crouch (bum in the air, head under the sofa), the pacing up and down with eyes glued to the floor, the whole business. But the cabin was very small and very sparsely furnished. If he’d dropped the Door, or if it had fallen out of his pocket, it’d have stood out on his bare, uncluttered floorboards like a haystack in a packet of needles. It wasn’t there. It had been there a short while ago, because he’d used it to come home with. But it wasn’t there now.

Had to be somewhere. Can’t have vanished as if by magic—

Frank closed his eyes and flopped against a wall. By magic was almost certainly how it had vanished; basically, the reverse of the procedure by which Dad had come by it in the first place. Looked at from that perspective, there was a kind of beautiful symmetry about it. From every other angle, he was utterly screwed. Not just because he’d lost the only valuable thing he’d ever owned; without it, he was several days’ gruelling walk from the nearest source of food, and there wasn’t so much as a stale Ritz cracker in the house.

He was looking around for something to prise the floorboards up with when he heard a creak behind him. He looked round, and saw a thin black line running horizontal across the back wall. As he stared at it, two more lines dropped down at each end, forming the outline of a rectangle.

He’d never seen the Door opening from the outside, of course, just as you’ve never sat in the back seat of your own car. It was only when the handle appeared that he realised what he was looking at.

He started to yelp with joy, then froze. The Door was opening. Someone was coming through it.

For one horrible second, he thought it might turn out to be himself. But it wasn’t; he’d never have been able to cram his foot into the narrow black court shoe that crossed the threshold into the cabin. But if it wasn’t him—

‘Hello,’ Emily said.

When Frank opened his mouth to reply, he had no idea what was going to come out of it. Could’ve been ‘That’s so wonderful, I thought I’d never see it again’; or ‘That’s so wonderful, I thought I’d never see you again’ (not his first thought, but valid nonetheless); or, if he’d been up to being cool and laid back about it all, ‘Hi, thanks for dropping in’; or even (it was there in his mind) ‘Oh God, the place is a real mess, it’s just I’ve been so busy lately’. As it was, he heard himself say, ‘It’s mine, you can’t have it, give it back.’

Emily stood perfectly still and looked at him (and he thought, Well, that’s buggered that up, well done, Frank); because, of course, she’d heard all five versions.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, ‘I didn’t mean—’

She winced, as though he’d shouted in her ear; then she had that let’s-get-it-over-with look on her face. ‘Frank,’ she said, ‘there’s something you ought to know about me.’

Not what he’d been expecting; in fact, for a moment he forgot all about the Door.

‘Oh?’ he said. ‘Wh—’

‘No, please don’t say anything,’ she snapped. ‘Not anything at all, until I’ve explained.’

‘But—’

‘Quiet!’

She sounded just like his mother. At some point or other, all women do.

‘Now then.’ Emily perched on the edge of the table and gave him another look, but it wasn’t any of the looks in the handbook. ‘It’s a bit awkward. It’s got magic in it, for a start.’

Frank knew he wasn’t allowed to speak, but nodding was presumably still permitted. He nodded.

‘When you say something—’ Pause. ‘Basically, it’s a side effect of drinking trolls’ blood.’ He must’ve pulled a face, because she gave him a don’t-be-such-a-cissy look which, he couldn’t help thinking, was a little bit much. ‘It was an accident,’ she went on, ‘I was doing a job earlier, a troll cut himself, I must’ve got a drop of his blood on my finger or something. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘it means that when you say something-well, I hear it, obviously, but I also hear what you really mean. What you wanted to say but didn’t. I can’t help it,’ she added, ‘it’s just magic, occupational hazard, and—’

Frank could feel his face burning; the perfect beetroot impersonation. Absolutely no need for her to tell him to be quiet now. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Now you know. There’s an antidote, and I had a dose before I met you tonight and we went to your Mr Sprague’s office, but it sort of wore off, and—’

He didn’t need troll’s blood to let him know what Emily was feeling, just as you don’t need to hear it ticking to know that a black pointy-nosed cylinder with fins is a bomb. It was, after all, exactly how he’d be feeling, in her shoes. Embarrassed, of course. Angry. Stress levels off the dial. And scared.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘Say something.’

‘You told me not to.’

‘I love you too.’

At which precise moment, Emily’s phone rang.

About ringtones. They are, of course, a statement: about who you think you are, who you want to be, who you want other people to think you are, all that. The trouble is, you choose them in quiet, restful moments, when you’re generally off your guard. At such a time, your judgement is usually subordinated to your whim, and even a normally rational person is capable of thinking that having your phone warble Crazy Frog or James Blunt is a really fun idea. Or, as in Emily’s case, the Laughing Policeman.

She cringed; which is a bit like saying the Second World War was a scuffle. At first, she pretended to ignore it, as if trying to make out that it was something going on in the street outside. Geography was against her there, though. She might just have got away with it if she’d gone with Rutting Stag, but basically she was on a hiding to nothing, and she knew it.

‘My phone,’ she whimpered. ‘Just a second.’

She scrabbled in her pocket and pulled it out, hating it. ‘Yes?’

‘Emily. Colin Gomez here.’

Colin Gomez had a carrying sort of voice, even over a mobile. Frank nodded, and stood up. ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea,’ he said.

‘Hello?’ Gomez, sounding faintly querulous. ‘Hello, are you there?’

En route to the kettle, Frank stopped and watched Emily. She’d gone ever such a funny colour, and she seemed to have forgotten about breathing and stuff. Then she smiled.

‘Mr Gomez,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you called. I’m going to kill you.’

‘What? It’s not a terribly good line, you’ll have to speak—’

‘And when I’ve done that,’ Emily went on, ‘I’m going to chop you up into little bits and feed you to the piranhas in Sally Krank’s office. Oh, and I quit. Goodbye.’

She stabbed a button so hard that Frank winced. Then she threw the phone across the room. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘My boss. He tried to murder me earlier. It’s all right,’ she added, ‘you can talk now.’

Frank pressed his lips together and shook his head.

‘Please?’

‘Yes, but—’ And then the Policeman started Laughing again.

‘Oh for crying out loud.’ Emily lunged across the cabin, snatched up the phone, stabbed it again and snapped, ‘What?’

‘There’s no need to shout,’ said Colin Gomez’s voice. ‘First, I’d like to apologise for what happened earlier.’

‘You total fucking ba—’

‘And,’ Gomez went on, ‘I need to know if you still want your job.’ Silence, apart from a faint rumbling from the kettle. ‘Hello? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, of course I bloody well am. What do you—?’

‘I can’t explain over the phone,’ Gomez said. ‘But—’ His voice lowered, so that she could barely hear it. ‘Let’s say there could well be some changes in the way the firm’s run, quite soon. Not entirely unconnected with the, um, incident.’

Frank looked at her. Troll’s blood, she’d said. Could he really love somebody it was impossible to lie to?

(Yes, he thought.)

‘I see,’ Emily said. ‘Oh, while I think of it, when we went to see Mr Pickersgill, he cut himself.’

‘I’m sorry, but I fail to see—’

‘Tastes like chicken.’

‘Ah.’ Long, long silence. ‘In which case,’ Gomez said brightly, ‘you believe me.’

‘No choice, really.’

‘Excellent. How soon can you be in my office?’

Emily smiled. ‘You’d be surprised.’

‘Actually, I wouldn’t. You’ve got it, haven’t you?’

Her eyebrows shot up, but she replied, ‘Long story.’ Slight hesitation. ‘If I come, you won’t try and kill me, will you?’

‘No.’

‘You’re right, actually, it would be. OK, I’ll be there.’ She stopped, and looked at Frank. ‘Soon. Something here I’ve got to take care of first.’

‘Be as quick as you can, then.’

‘No,’ she said, and hit the button.

They looked at each other. ‘Tea’s ready,’ Frank said.

Emily thought about what Gomez had just said-all of it. Then she dropped the phone on the floor and jumped on it. ‘So we won’t be interrupted,’ she said, and kissed him.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Amelia Carrington was waiting for the phone to ring. To pass the time and take her mind off her own impatience, she flicked through the latest edition of the New Magical Express. Researchers in Thailand, she read, were claiming to have proved the existence of a hitherto unknown number somewhere between one and ten. The new number-an integer, of course, not a mere fraction-had so far only been detected as an otherwise inexplicable blip in extrapolated series of intervals, and until it could be properly identified and its value exactly calculated, it was too early to say what practical effect this discovery would have on the day-to-day business of magic. Amelia raised an eyebrow at that, and made a note on a scrap of paper to have someone look into the possibility of patenting the new number before it passed into the public domain; getting royalties every time someone added up a shopping list or a darts score appealed to her enormously, but not if the cost of enforcing the patent was likely to outweigh the returns. Look what had happened to Schreiber & Deeks in the States when they’d tried to copyright Thursday. The phone buzzed. She lunged at it and barked, ‘Yes?’ Not the call she’d been expecting. Amelia scowled, then said, ‘All right, send her in.’ A few seconds later, a slim blonde woman with huge eyes and an exaggerated bust walked through the door and perched on the edge of the visitor’s chair like a blue tit on a bird table.