In Your Dreams (27 page)

His lawyers have written us that there's a box of his stuff at their office. Dad and I don't want anything particularly, so if you want to go and collect it, you can keep anything you want and welcome. The lawyers are quite handy for where you work, they are in Grays Inn Road. You could drop by on your lunch break. I enclose their card, and Dad has written on the back that you can have the box.

Hope you are well,

Mum

Paul picked up the card and looked at it: on one side the firm's name, Messrs Swindall, Frettenham & Shark; on the other, his father's heavy, blunt letters:
Paul Carpenter is my son, he can have Ernie's old junk as I don't want it. D. Carpenter.

Christ
, he thought.

It was, he reflected, the first time he'd ever inherited anything; and since Uncle Ernie only mattered to him because of the remote chance that he might be the Ernest Carpenter who'd written part of the chapter in the office-procedures manual, his death wasn't a desperately harrowing event. The timing of his sudden windfall was something quite other, as spiky with implications as a hedgehog group hug. But his parents couldn't be involved in JWW stuff, could they? And they wouldn't lie to him, or anything like that.

No, Paul decided, he could be fairly sure they wouldn't, in the normal course of things; since in order to lie, you must first communicate. He thought for a moment. He'd had a letter from his parents before – one, enclosing a note for him to pass on to the bank, cancelling his subsistence allowance when he'd got his job. It had been pleasant enough, but laconic to the point of terseness; there hadn't been any of the gushing personal detail that his mother had crammed into this one. Another point he couldn't help but notice was that his Mum's writing style had changed rather, and some of the turns of phrase didn't sound like her at all. He tried to analyse the differences, but the only one he could put his finger on was that when he was a kid, all her sentences tended to start with the word
don't
. That, he admitted, could be accounted for by context. He put the card in his wallet and left the letter on the hall shelf, mostly covered by his library book but with one corner showing.

The woman who collected Paul from the waiting-room introduced herself as Mrs Leary. She was smart, brisk and moderately friendly, which made a pleasant change after a morning helping Christine move more filing cabinets.

‘I have to say I never met your – uncle, was it?' she said over her shoulder, as Paul followed her across a savannah of deep, monogrammed beige carpet.

‘Great-uncle,' he replied, ‘I think. My parents were always a bit vague. You know, everybody was uncle this or aunt that. Anyway, we weren't close or anything like that.'

Mrs Leary took him to a small room with a plain desk and a wall full of prints of Great Nineteenth Century Judges; they gave the impression of having ended up there because there was nowhere else to banish them to, like the Picts. The box of Uncle Ernie's effects was on the desk when he got there. A long time ago, it had contained tinned South African peaches.

‘That's it,' said Mrs Leary. ‘And here's a note of our charges,' she added, handing him a scary-looking envelope. ‘No need to bother with that now, next week will do fine.'

Paul looked at the box. ‘You were his lawyers,' he said. ‘Can you tell me anything about him?'

Mrs Leary shrugged. ‘Not very much, I'm afraid. We were the executors, and actually there was only just enough money to cover the funeral and our costs. The nursing home got rid of the clothes and bits and pieces, apart from this. There's photos and stuff – they didn't like to throw them away without asking.'

Paul hesitated. For some reason, he didn't feel like going through the box at home, or even back at the office. ‘Would it be all right if I just sat here for a few minutes and had a look through?' he asked. ‘If I'm not in the way or anything?'

Mrs Leary smiled. ‘You go ahead,' she said. ‘I'll leave you to it, if that's all right. I'm just next door, so when you're finished, just knock and I'll take you back to reception. This place is a bit of a maze, I'm afraid.'

Compared to 70 St Mary Axe it was a Roman road across a desert, but Paul thanked her and she went away. He sat down, composed himself, and peered into the box.

Someone had gone to the trouble of typing out a list.

1 library ticket

1 Sea Scout badge

1 pen

1 watch (broken)

1 screwdriver

1 packet coloured chalks

3 photograph albums

Flawlessly accurate, you had to give them that. He opened the box of chalks, closed it and put it back; shook the watch just in case; tried the pen, which had run out; flicked through two of the albums, which were both full of black and white photos of people he didn't recognise. Then he opened the envelope, and learned that he owed Messrs Swindall, Frettenham & Shark a hundred pounds plus VAT. That sort of a day, really.

‘All done?' Mrs Leary chirupped at him when he asked to be let out. ‘Was there anything nice?'

Paul smiled thinly and handed her a cheque. She thanked him very politely, and held the door for him on the way out, since his hands were full of cardboard box. It was raining outside, and needless to say he hadn't worn his coat.

‘Anything in there for me?' Mr Tanner's mum chirped at him as he trudged past reception. He stopped and smiled at her. ‘Sure,' he said. ‘In fact, you have a choice. Packet of coloured chalks or a screwdriver.'

Her face straightened; the trade-mark smirk evaporated. ‘Let me see,' she said.

‘Don't be silly, I was only kidding. It's just some junk left to me by some uncle I never met since I was a—'

‘Let me see,' she repeated, in such a stern and commanding voice that, for a moment, Paul pitied Mr Tanner for his childhood. ‘I may not be the most powerful rune in the charm, but I have got a sense of smell, and that box
stinks
.'

It took a second for the penny to drop. ‘Oh,' he said. ‘You can smell magic and stuff.'

Mr Tanner's mum sighed impatiently, then froze for a moment, as if she'd been turned to stone. Paul was about to panic and start yelling for help when she exploded with a window-pane-rattling sneeze. Apparently it was her turn with the office cold. ‘That's one way of putting it. Take all day to explain, and most of it'd go over your head, you'd feel like a dwarf in a strip club. Let me see that box.'

He shrugged and put it down on the desk. ‘As far as I'm concerned, you can keep it. Cost me a hundred quid I haven't got, for one—' He stopped, as Mr Tanner's mum yelped with pain. The Sea Scout badge clattered on the desk. ‘What's the matter?'

‘That,' she replied, sucking her fingers. ‘Bloody thing. Could've done me an injury.'

‘What, you pricked your finger on the pin or something?'

She gave him an icy scowl and lifted her hand for him to see. The skin on the pads of her thumb and forefinger had been melted, and blisters had already started to swell. ‘Shield,' she explained. ‘What did you say your disgusting uncle did for a living?'

‘No idea,' Paul replied. ‘Well—'

‘This shield,' Mr Tanner's mum went on, ‘is a really nasty, very rare and expensive piece of specialised kit. In fact,' she added, pushing it across the desk at him with the tip of a pencil, ‘I'm fairly sure it's illegal; bloody well ought to be, anyhow.' She paused, sneezed again, then went on: ‘It's to protect humans against creatures of darkness.' She scowled at him. ‘Like me.'

Paul could feel himself go red in the face. ‘I'm terribly sorry,' he said, ‘I had no idea—'

‘Well, now you know. Look, will you put that bloody thing away? It's giving me a migraine just looking at it.'

He picked it up nervously, but he couldn't feel anything unusual at all. He dropped it in his pocket and pulled down the flap. ‘That's what you could smell, was it?'

Mr Tanner's mum grunted. ‘I remember you telling me once that your family are a load of bastards,' she said. ‘Should've listened. Let's see what else you've got in there, before you accidentally kill the whole office.'

‘Sure,' Paul said. ‘Look, would you rather I held them up for you to see? In case there's any more dangerous stuff?'

She nodded, and he took out the packet of chalks. When she saw them, Mr Tanner's mum opened her eyes wide, then grinned. ‘Stone me,' she said. ‘Haven't seen any of them in a long time.'

‘What?'

But Mr Tanner's mum just shook her head; still upset, presumably, because of the shield. ‘Put them somewhere safe and forget about them,' she said. ‘They'll come in handy one of these days, but they're not something you want to go playing with. Anything else?'

Paul held up the pen, the broken watch and the screwdriver. This time, Mr Tanner's mum gave a low whistle.

‘And all this shit used to belong to your uncle, did it?' she said.

‘Great-uncle,' Paul replied. ‘I think. I never really knew him, to be honest.'

‘Count your blessings,' Mr Tanner's mum replied, dabbing at her nose with a Kleenex. ‘All right, here's a couple of clues. That watch thing – you've probably noticed, it doesn't go.'

‘That's right,' Paul said. ‘At least, I assume it doesn't. I tried winding it—'

Mr Tanner's mum opened her eyes wide. ‘You didn't try setting the hands?'

‘No. Why?'

She smiled. ‘That's another truly horrible gadget you've got there,' she said. ‘Reason it doesn't go is that it's not meant to. Quite the reverse. If you pull out the little winder thing and set the hands, then wind it up till it starts ticking, it freezes time. Like I said, truly horrible and antisocial. I'd suggest you get rid of it, only that'd be really irresponsible. Imagine: you chuck it away, someone picks it up and tries it to see if it'll go—'

Paul shuddered. ‘What would you suggest?' he said.

‘Strongroom,' she replied. ‘In a sealed box, marked
do not touch
. I'll put it away for you if you like.'

‘Thanks,' Paul said, with feeling. ‘Is that the lot?'

Mr Tanner's mum shook her head. ‘The pen and the screwdriver aren't quite so bad, but you don't want to leave them lying about either. Probably best if I put the whole lot away for you. And the chalks,' she added, maybe a touch too quickly. ‘Right?'

‘Absolutely,' Paul said. ‘Really, I didn't have the faintest idea. How's your hand?'

‘Painful,' she replied. ‘Hang on, what's that in the bottom of the box? Books?'

‘Photo albums. Maybe you could check them out for me. You know, just in case.'

She hesitated, then grunted, ‘Oh, go on, then. Give them here, one at a time.'

Paul put them on the desk. She used the pencil to turn the pages. ‘Anything?' Paul asked.

‘Nah, just a lot of boring pictures of ugly people. Your family, presumably.' She bent her head down and sniffed. ‘Can't smell anything, so I'm guessing they're all right. How did you say you came by this lot?'

‘I told you, it got left to me. Well, not me, my mum and dad; but they didn't want it.'

She was looking at him very oddly. ‘He died, then, this uncle of yours.'

‘Apparently. I mean, I haven't seen the body or anything—' He'd meant it sarcastically, but the look on her face startld him. ‘What? You think there's something wrong.'

A debate of some kind was going on behind her eyes. No way of knowing which side won; but she lowered her voice and leaned forward a little. ‘A suggestion for you. Whatever you do,
don't
let Countess Judy know about this.'

‘Why not?'

Her eyes sparkled. ‘Because I say not, that's why. Right, you take on the photo albums, I'll deal with the rest of it. Go on, then,' she added, before he could say anything, ‘piss off. Shoo.'

That was odd, too; normally Paul had trouble getting away from her. Still, he wasn't complaining. He thanked her once again, and retired to his office. There was a note on his desk, in Countess Judy's tall, slanting handwriting. He dumped the photo albums on the shelf and picked it up.

My office 2.30. J di C-B.

‘One damned thing after another,' Paul muttered under his breath, and checked his watch. He had ten minutes to kill, no work to do, and he wasn't sure offhand what day of the week it was. He took the Sea Scout badge out of his pocket, meaning to hide it away in his desk along with the run-out biros and Polo-mint wrappers. It lay in his hand, harmless as a paper clip.

Uncle Ernie
, he thought.
My inheritance.

Just a stupid badge; but he couldn't bear either to hold on to it or put it away. On an impulse that came from a part of his brain that he didn't bother with much, he opened his jacket and pinned it to the lining. Then it was time for his meeting.

Countess Judy looked older and thinner than she'd been that morning, as though she'd had too much on her mind to bother putting her face on. When he walked in she avoided his gaze, which was very unusual. In a way, she looked more
real
than he'd ever seen her before.

‘You'll be delighted to hear,' she said, ‘that the negotiations have been successful.'

Probably because his brain was still awash with coloured chalks and being parted from a hundred pounds, it took Paul a moment to remember what she was talking about. ‘That's fantastic,' he said.

She shrugged. ‘There are aspects of the matter that you aren't familiar with,' she said vaguely. ‘Rest assured that the negotiations were long and involved, and also cost this firm a great deal of money. However, the main thing is that Mr Wurmtoter and Mr Shumway, and your car, have been retrieved. Your part in this—' She looked up at him, then abruptly looked away. ‘I owe you a debt of gratitude, Mr Carpenter,' she said stiffly. ‘Thank you.'