You Don't Have To Be Evil To Work Here, But It Helps (43 page)

Colin had asked her, isn’t there anything you can do? And that was just when he’d wanted to save his father from the consequences of his own lunatic stupidity. Is there anything you can do to stop it, put it right, make it go away? Such a question wouldn’t have bothered Cassie if the answer had been no, because there’s possible and there’s impossible, and she didn’t believe in miracles. She was even prepared to accept that it wasn’t her fault; because yes, she hadn’t read the draft contract through properly or she’d have figured out that it was Colin, not his Dad, who was in the frame; but no, because even though she’d been careless and unprofessional, she hadn’t started it or suggested it or come up with the idea in the first place. Guilt couldn’t make her do this supremely stupid thing, any more than love could. But he’d asked her, isn’t there anything she could do, and apparently she’d been wrong when she’d replied no, nothing.

Cassie frowned. Suddenly she realised that she didn’t approve of nothing, on principle. There was, after all, something she could do. It was a bloody stupid reason for doing a bloody stupid thing, but she’d go for something over nothing every time.

‘Ms Clay? Yes or no?’

Cassie sighed. Maybe it was like children’s parties when she was a kid; it won’t be so bad once you’re there.

She reached across the table, took hold of the sheaf of paper that the thin-faced girl had put down, and undipped her pen. ‘All right,’ she said.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Slightly breathless after sprinting up two flights of stairs, Connie knocked on the door and opened it, dragging Colin in behind her. Then she stopped.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘sorry. I was looking for—’

The thin-faced girl lifted her head and smiled. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘You were looking for me.’

Connie wilted slightly, the way you do when you’ve been proved right but wish you hadn’t been. ‘You know what?’ she said. ‘I had this funny feeling that it was you, but I assumed it was just me being dozy. Hooray for intuition. So, you’re the new boss, then.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re the one who had me sacked.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’ve been making a nuisance of yourself.’

‘Ah.’ Connie nodded happily. ‘In that case, I forgive you. If it’d been because you thought I wasn’t any good at my job, I’d have—’

‘You might as well sit down,’ the thin-faced girl said. Connie frowned, upset at being interrupted before she could work up a good head of righteous indignation, then she did as she was told.

‘I — ‘ The thin-faced girl hesitated. ‘Obviously, you’ve been giving the current situation a lot of thought, and I would appreciate any insights you may have to offer.’

‘Coo.’ Connie grinned. ‘You know, that almost makes up for it. Oh, by the way,’ she added. ‘Who’s your friend?’

The thin-faced girl smiled. ‘He knows.’

He? Connie remembered about Colin, and turned round, to find him trying vainly to walk backwards through the corner of the room with his eyes shut. ‘Hey, you,’ she said. ‘Introductions, please.’

But Colin only shook his head; apparently he was having trouble with his language skills as well as with his motor functions. Instead, the odd-looking specimen sitting next to the thin girl stood up and bowed very slightly.

‘My name is Oscar,’ it said.

‘Charmed. I’m Connie Schwartz-Alberich. Sorry if I’m butting in on a private meeting.’

‘Not at all,’ the thing called Oscar said. ‘As it happens, we have just concluded our business with Ms Clay, and I’m needed back at Mortlake.’ It did something with its face that was presumably meant to be a smile. ‘Mr Hollingshead,’ it said, and Colin shuddered from head to foot. ‘I must confess, I’m surprised to see you here, but in fact your presence is rather timely. I fancy that you’re about to hear some good news. Farewell for ever.’

Then Oscar dipped its head, waggled its fingers in a tiny wave, and vanished, leaving behind a small yellow cloud that quickly dissipated into a bad memory and a worse smell.

‘Indeed,’ the thin-faced girl said, as though nothing noteworthy had happened. ‘Good news, Mr Hollingshead. You’re off the hook.’

‘Am I?’ Colin muttered. ‘Oh, great. What hook?’

‘The contract, of course,’ the thin-faced girl said. ‘It no longer applies to you, or to your father, for that matter. As far as Oscar and his associates are concerned, you’re free.’

It took a moment for that to sink in; and once it had, Colin was surprised by how little he felt. Releif, yes, but not the kind and strength he’d have anticipated. It was more you-don’t-have-to-go-to-tea-with-your-Aunt-Olive than saved-from-everlasting-torment. An irritation sidestepped, nothing more.

‘Great,’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘Because someone else has agreed to take your place,’ the thin-faced girl said. ‘Don’t ask for further information, it might spoil it for you.’

Colin shook his head. ‘Who was it?’

‘Me.’

And that, as Connie was the first to recognise, was actually the most remarkable thing: that Colin, dosed to the eyeballs with JWW philtre, had been in the same room as Cassie for several minutes and had barely registered that she was there until she said that one word.

‘You?’

Cassie nodded. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s only fair. I got you into this mess.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ Colin snapped. ‘It was my stupid Dad, so it’s not fair. You were just doing your job.’

‘It’s still my fault,’ Cassie said, not looking at him. ‘And even if it isn’t, you shouldn’t have to suffer. You aren’t anything to do with us, the trade. You’re a civilian.’

It took Colin a moment to realise that she meant that as an insult.

‘Both of you.’ The thin-faced girl could talk quite loudly when she wanted to. ‘That’s enough. The simple fact is, Ms Clay has made a binding contract, and neither of you can do anything about it. Accordingly, Mr Hollingshead —’

‘I see.’ Connie had been sitting perfectly still for an uncharacteristically long time. ‘Yes, I get it. You need Colin off the hook so that he can reincarnate.’

‘Quite,’ said the thin-faced girl. ‘Also, he is morally blameless, and my organisation’s first priority — ‘

‘Is to cover up its own messes, yes.’ Connie’s nostrils were flaring. ‘The last thing I’d expect from you right now is a holier-than-thou attitude, even if you are.’

‘Ah.’ The thin-faced girl scowled. ‘More intuition?’

‘Yes,’ Connie said firmly. ‘Oh, it wasn’t difficult. You buy up this firm, go to all this trouble, so that you can fix the True Love screw-up. Who else could you possibly be? I’m not quite sure,’ she went on, ‘if you’re the with-a-flaming-sword kind or the perched-on-top-of-a-Christmas-tree variety, but I don’t suppose it matters. And it still doesn’t give you the right to sack people for trying to help their friends.’

‘No, I suppose it doesn’t.’ The thin-faced girl shrugged. ‘Very well. Now that there’s not much point in trying to keep this wretched business confidential, I suppose you may as well have your job back.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘As you wish. You were a satisfactory employee but hardly irreplaceable; and besides, the affairs of this firm really don’t concern me much any more. As you say, Mr Hollingshead here is now cleared for reincarnation; the discrepancy can be dealt with, that’s all that matters. For my part, I’ve become heartily sick of this environment and I shall be delighted to go home again.’

‘Fine,’ Connie said. ‘Push off.’

Pause. The thin-faced girl was clearly waiting for something to happen. Equally clearly, it wasn’t. First she registered patience, then frustration, then irritation, finally panic. ‘This isn’t right,’ she said, in a distinctly unhappy voice. ‘I ought to be on my way home by now. I shouldn’t still be here, or in this—’

‘Outfit?’

‘In this corporeal state,’ the thin-faced girl amended. ‘I should have resolved myself back into a higher plane of existence.’

This time, Connie laughed; not kindly, but with genuine warmth. ‘Still here, though, aren’t you? Which means,’ she added crisply, ‘that the balls-up hasn’t been sorted out after all. Something’s still wrong, and you still don’t know what it is.’

The thin-faced girl gave her a scowl that you could’ve impaled kebabs on. ‘So it would seem. ‘

‘You don’t know,’ Connie repeated. ‘But I’ll bet you your wings and your ducky little golden harp that I do. Intuition,’ she added ferociously, ‘something you sneer at but don’t have. Were those horrible bloody baseball caps your idea, by the way? If so—’

‘Just a minute.’ Cassie had come back to life again. ‘Connie, do you really think you know what the problem is?’

‘Yes. But I don’t see why I should tell her anything. She’s the one who made us do those stupid bloody assessments. And she changed the coffee from Gold Blend to Tesco’s own brand. I can forgive most things, but sheer petty mean-mindedness—’

‘Connie,’ Cassie snapped. ‘What’s the problem?’

Connie wavered for a moment. ‘Oh, all right, then,’ she said. ‘Look, it’s really very simple. Margaret Thatcher here -‘ the thin-faced girl winced sharply but said nothing ‘- seems to have been basing her calculations on the assumption that you and young Colin are both reincarnations of the original star-crossed lovers, right?’

‘Yes,’ the thin-faced girl said. ‘Actually, it’s more than an assumption. We have delicate, precision-calibrated equipment that allows us to trace the passage of a soul through its various avatars; even in this case, where the incarnations have been running backwards instead of forwards. Our instruments clearly show that Ms Clay here is the fifteenth incarnation of the female star-crossed lover. As for Mr Hollingshead, it’s perfectly obvious that he’s also an avatar. Quite apart from our instrument readings, the fact that the pending forfeiture of his soul caused such an upheaval—’

‘Sod your instruments,’ Connie interrupted. ‘All right, maybe Cassie’s an incarnation, I’ll give you that. But not young Colin. He’s not a fifteenth-generation retread. He’s the original.’

Stunned silence.

‘That’s not possible,’ the thin-faced girl said eventually. ‘We know who the originals were. Furthermore, Ms Clay here has actually met them. They came through the connecting door from the Land of the Dead to consult her.’

Cassie looked up sharply. ‘How do you know about that?’

‘Simple. I opened the door and let them through.’

‘Did you, now?’ Connie nodded thoughtfully. ‘Thanks. That ties up another loose end. Really, you’re being very helpful all of a sudden. But forget about that for a second. I was explaining it all to you, or had you forgotten?’

‘Carry on,’ the thin-faced girl replied.

Like I told you (Connie said), it’s pretty straightforward once you stop and think about it. You see, you’ve been coming at it from the wrong direction. Typical, I might add, but I won’t, because otherwise we’ll be here all night.

The point about this mess, as I see it, is not just that we’ve got a case of true love, but a case of true love that got screwed up. So, what we need to do is find the cause of the screw-up. Now, what makes true love so important is that it’s true love. It’s boy meets girl, they fall in love, they live happily ever after; absolutely basic, no frills, no complications. Once their eyes have met across a crowded room, that’s it. No force on earth can ever separate them, as long as they live.

Almost.

Because, of course, there is one force on earth that can bugger it all up, and that’s J. W. Wells & Co’s patent oxy-hydrogen love philtre. Guaranteed. The only way a true lover can be prised off his one true love and made to fancy someone else is five millilitres of the good old stuff, taken internally.

That simplifies things, doesn’t it? Of course, I haven’t got access to all your search results and instrument data, so I can’t be sure that out of all the poor sods who’ve been dragged into this mess by way of retrospective reincarnation or whatever, young Hollingshead’s the only male partner who’s ever had a dose of the big bad medicine. However, I’ll bet you the knickers I’m wearing that it’s true. Of course, Cassie’s drunk the stuff as well, so it’s possible that she was an original rather than a remake, but I don’t think that’s the case. You see, while all this garbage has been going on around him, Colin here reckons that he’s found his one true love: stout girl, works on the front desk here, name of Famine Williams. And - no disrespect, Cassie dear - the same can’t be said of our Cassie. In fact, she wouldn’t know love if it bit her on the nose.

Now; once you’ve got that far, everything else just sort of drops nicely into place. Colin and his Fam are true lovers; but something goes wrong, with disastrous results. Fine. You and your bunch of idiots swing into action to sort out the problem. But the problem won’t sort out, because the reincarnate-‘em-and-fix-it-next-time-round option’s not available to you, thanks to Daddy Hollingshead’s ill-timed pact with the Devil. Result: incarnations back up into the past. One of them is Cassie here. You, with all your technological wizardry, assume that Cas and Colin are avatars, and you decide to force them to fall in love by spiking their tea with JWW philtre. A bit high-handed, maybe, but at least I can see where you were coming from. Like most people who do unbelievable amounts of harm and damage to others, you were only doing what you thought was for the best.

OK. Let’s just stop and think about this. Something buggers up Colin and Fam’s true love. We’ve already seen that, one, the chronology of this is all to cock, thanks to the contract with your mate Oscar; two, that only JWW philtre could’ve caused the screw-up in the first place. Got it?

Oh, come on. It’s obvious. It’s obvious what messed up Colin and Fam. It was you, dosing Colin with the philtre and making him fall for Cassie. See what you did? By trying to solve the problem, you bloody well caused it in the first place.

The two seconds after Connie stopped speaking were a very long time. Galaxies could have spawned in that time, and drifted from one side of the universe to the other.

‘Oh,’ said the thin-faced girl.

‘I think that puts it rather neatly,’ Connie said. ‘“Oh.”’ She breathed out through her nose, like an irritable horse. ‘For crying out load, ‘ she snapped. ‘I thought the whole point about you people is that you’re supposed to be infallible, and omniscient, and all that stuff. You know, to err is human, which you most certainly aren’t. But instead, you got it wrong. More than that, it’s because you got it wrong that there was something to get wrong in the first place. No disrespect, but if you lot were running the brewery Christmas party, someone’d end up having to do a last-minute emergency dash to the off-licence.’