In Your Dreams (9 page)

‘On balance,' Mr Shumway said, closing the door behind them and leaning on it, ‘I think I preferred it when we used to use Nat West.' He reached behind him and shot the top bolt. ‘But the BOTD's long-term deposit rates are pretty much unbeatable, and their business-account charges are two per cent less.' He turned round, supporting himself against the door frame with his left hand, and locked up.

Paul managed to get as far as the desk before his knees gave way. His eyes were full of sweat, and now, suddenly, he was out of breath and freezing cold. ‘Mr Shumway,' he said.

‘Benny,' Mr Shumway replied without looking round. ‘I guess you can call me that, after—' He shrugged. ‘I got to do that every day, five days a week. You can see why, far as I'm concerned, dragons and vampires are a pleasant change.'

‘Benny,' Paul said. ‘That – man.' Not the right word, but
was
there a right word to describe Mr Dao? All in all, he rather hoped there wasn't. ‘When he offered me a cup of tea. What would've happened if I'd—?'

Benny shook his head. ‘Nothing you'd have enjoyed,' he said. ‘Same as if you'd looked round, or answered Them when They talked to you.' He turned to face Paul. His eyes were very round behind their three-eighths of an inch of glass. ‘You've got to remember,' he said. ‘On the other side of that door, there's nothing. Nothing at all. Not people, or things, just—' He shrugged. ‘Well, you know, you've been there now.' He walked slowly to the desk, like a drunk trying to stay upright, and flumped into his chair. ‘Look, Paul,' he said, ‘I'm sorry for not warning you. But if I had, you wouldn't have come with me. And—' His shoulders sagged. ‘Just once in a while, it's good to know that there's something alive in there, apart from just me. It's supposed to be all right, now that they know me, I'm the accredited representative of JWW, and the bank people've guaranteed my safety. But.' Benny sighed, and his head went forward onto his folded arms. ‘But they never stop trying, you know? Just little sneaky things, like the business with the tea. If they get you, you see, they get just a little bit of life, a couple of seconds maybe, and then it's back to—' He yawned; he was exhausted too, Paul realised. ‘So you can't blame them, really. I mean, you'd be the same. Will be one day, of course, but it doesn't do any good thinking about that.' He raised his head. ‘You OK?'

No, of course not
. ‘Yes,' Paul said. ‘I'm fine. Only—'

‘Yes?'

‘Only,' Paul said, ‘do I have to do that again? I mean—'

Mr Shumway looked at him. ‘No,' he said. ‘Like I told you, I just wanted the company. No, you don't have to go.'

I don't have to go
, Paul thought; and then he looked at Mr Shumway, bloodless and empty-eyed. ‘It's OK,' Paul said. ‘I don't mind.'

Just a very faint smile, because anything more would've needed more strength than Benny Shumway had just then. ‘Thanks,' he said. ‘Doesn't mean I'm going to be nice to you, mind,' he added. ‘You don't get your lunch hour back or anything.'

Slight disappointment, because Paul was only human. For now, anyway; grateful for small mercies. Whatever it was that had been whispering in his mind's ear back there, it hadn't been human at all. ‘I know,' he said. ‘It's all right.'

‘Fine.' Mr Shumway shrugged off the whole experience like someone shuffling out of a wet coat. ‘In that case, tomorrow we're going to make a start on intermediate nitroglycerine.' His trade-mark feral grin flashed for the first time since they'd gone through the door. ‘Just something for you to think about between now and then,' he added.

That night, Paul had a rather unpleasant dream. In it, Sophie had become an incredibly famous and glamorous movie star, and he'd stood in line to get her autograph for hours and days and weeks, only to find when eventually he got to the head of the queue that she'd died in her sleep, and Countess Judy di Castel'Bianco had taken over from her.

The next time was worse.

On the way to wherever it was they went to, there were even more of Them; dead aunts, uncles, cousins, relatives Paul had never even heard of, names scrawled in brown ink on the backs of curling photographs, all reproaching him bitterly for his total lack of compassion. It'd have been worse if he'd ever been under the illusion that any of his relations liked him

And when they got there, and Mr Shumway had produced his old baseball cap, stuffed a big silk handkerchief into it, shaken out half a dozen milk-white doves and blasted them out of the air with the Remington 870 pump-action shotgun he drew out of his top pocket (now that, Paul had to admit as the sixth pathetic white corpse spiralled out of the air, is
conjuring
); this time it wasn't grave, venerable Mr Dao who sprouted up out of the bloody dust at his feet. This time it was a heartbreakingly lovely young girl, who smiled at him and said that her name was Miss Wa, and could she be of any assistance? Even Benny Shumway had to take a couple of seconds to pull himself together; and when, their business concluded, she smiled again and asked if they'd like to stop for a cup of tea – because, she explained, she hadn't had anything to drink since 1723, when she'd died in the arms of her husband on their wedding day—

‘That,' Benny admitted as he slammed the door shut and leaned on it, ‘was too bloody close.'

‘Yes,' Paul said.

‘Too bloody close,' Benny elaborated as he turned the keys, ‘by half, or maybe even five-eighths.' He shook his head and pocketed the keyring. ‘I've been doing this run for two years now and they never tried
that
on me. In fact,' he added, favouring Paul with a sour frown, ‘my guess is, it was laid on for your benefit. They know about you, see. About all of us. They can spot your weaknesses soon as you step through that door.'

‘Oh.' Paul could feel his face going red. ‘I'm not that bad, am I?' he mumbled.

Benny Shumway looked at him for a moment or so before he answered. ‘They know,' he repeated. ‘I guess I'm lucky,' he added, ‘because they don't have Westerners working for the Bank, and my problem's always been redheads. And blondes,' he added, after a brief pause. ‘And brunettes. Not that I've got anything against your Oriental types, come to that, but I never could resist a redhead.'

‘Um,' said Paul.

‘Don't you go all thoughtful,' Benny said. ‘Like I told you, they know; so it's pretty obvious where you stand on the issue. Nothing to feel bad about, either,' he added. ‘I've never felt bad about it, me. If there's such a thing as reincarnation, I want to come back as a Maidenform bra. But letting them see it – that's something else. You've got to find a way of dealing with it.'

‘Right,' Paul muttered.

‘Me,' Benny added, dropping into his chair, ‘I always think about goblins.'

‘Goblins?'

The Shumway grin. ‘You've come across Dennis Tanner's mother, right?'

It was, Paul had to admit, a valid point. ‘I'll try that,' he said. ‘Thanks'

‘No charge.' Benny looked at his watch. ‘Well,' he said. ‘It's a quarter past five, and by rights you've got just enough time to help me write in these yellow slips. But,' he added, pulling his wire tray towards him across the desk, ‘I reckon I probably owe you one by now, so you piss off and I'll do it. I happen to know,' he added to nobody in particular, ‘that she rather fancies seeing the new Mel Gibson film. Odeon Leicester Square, programme starts at ten past six, but you won't mind missing the trailers.'

Maybe
, Paul thought as he ran down the stairs,
it's a dwarf thing
; or maybe it was so bloody obvious that even dead bankers could read it in his face. That said, Benny Shumway had been right on the money. Ever since that serendipitous lunchtime, Paul hadn't had a chance to say more than a quick, clipped ‘Hello' to Melze on his way past the front desk, and that was a situation that he badly wanted to set right.

Melze reckoned that it wasn't a very good film. It went on twenty minutes too long, she said, and she didn't really like effects-fests anyhow. Paul had no opinion whatsoever about the movie; he couldn't remember a thing about it, since his attention had been elsewhere. The flickering light of the screen had been bright enough to highlight the curve of her cheek and the curl of her ear lobe. He'd noticed them during the last trailer, and by the time he'd managed to drag his attention away from them, there was nothing on the screen except the names of assistant cameramen.

‘Mostly I like his films,' she was saying, ‘though the endings are usually a bit of a let-down. This one, though, I started fidgeting halfway through.'

He knew. He'd noticed. She fidgeted divinely. Bizarrely, he hadn't been aware of how gloriously she fidgeted when he'd sat behind her at Laburnum Grove primary, but he put that down to being a late developer, or profoundly stupid. ‘You're so right,' he was about to say, but instead he sneezed.

‘Bless you,' Melze said promptly; then, ‘Looks like you've caught it now.'

Paul looked up; so she'd guessed. Only a matter of time. ‘Sorry?'

‘The office cold,' she explained. ‘Been going round for a week or so. I'm lucky,' she added, ‘I never get colds, or flu. Not for want of trying – at my last job, I'd have given good money for a really sure-fire flu bug that'd have kept me at home for a week. Everybody else got it, not me. Life can be really unfair sometimes.'

He had no idea what she was talking about, but of course it didn't matter. What mattered was that she was sitting at the same table as him in the Pizza Hut in the Strand, and she didn't seem to mind one bit. Bizarre; but he wasn't going to argue. Suited him just fine.

‘So,' he was dimly aware of saying, ‘you like the pictures, then?'

‘Love them,' Melze replied promptly, apparently not noticing how fatuous his remark had been. ‘In fact, it's crossed my mind to see if I can put in for a transfer. You know JWW's got an office in Hollywood?'

Something crumpled inside Paul's head. Yes, he knew that very well. Somehow he'd managed to forget, just temporarily, but now she'd reminded him. So kind of her. ‘You don't want to go there,' he said, before he'd realised it.

‘Oh?' She just looked intrigued. ‘What's the matter with it?'

‘Earthquakes.' He tried to ignore the fact that he despised himself for being an unimaginative buffoon. ‘Very dangerous area, because of all the, um, seismic activity. I was reading somewhere, one of these days that whole part of California's going to disappear down a huge crack in the ground.'

Melze giggled. Most young women over seventeen don't do giggles well, but she had the gift. ‘I see,' she said. ‘Well, if I do get a transfer, I'll be sure to take a parachute. Seriously, though, is there something I should know?'

Paul hesitated, then nodded. ‘I've heard – well, a few things,' he said awkwardly.

‘Really?'

‘A friend of mine.' Why so much guilt, just because of his choice of words? But he felt as though he'd just given the order for all his most cherished memories to be dragged out and shot. ‘Friend of mine,' he repeated, ‘got posted over there just recently. Apparently it's no fun at all. Not glamorous or anything, just plain boring.'

She frowned, then her face lit up. You could have taken a photograph down a mine shaft by the glow. ‘Oh yes,' she said, ‘I heard something about that. The clerk who used to work with you. Someone told me her name—'

‘Sophie. Sophie Pettingell.' There, he'd done it. The ultimate betrayal, like finally throwing away your childhood teddy bear. ‘I, um, got an e-mail the other day. She says she can't wait for her three months to be over so she can come home.'

Melze was looking at him. She didn't need to say,
Didn't she use to be your girlfriend?
‘Well,' she said, ‘maybe I'll give that a miss, then. I suppose three months is a long time to be away, anyhow.'

He'd done it; but in spite of that, or maybe because of it, they weren't alone at the table any more. Next to Paul, just on the extreme edge of his vision, was a hole where Sophie wasn't, a palpable presence – it put him in mind of the patch of nothing where the blood fell, and suddenly a dead clerk jumped up. It occurred to him that the two effects were essentially the same. Mr Dao and Miss Wa were – what, ghosts? But a ghost's just a heavy-duty memory, which can only be revived and called back with a splash of someone else's life. He thought of the memories that had mobbed him as he'd walked across the empty place with Benny Shumway. Would Sophie be with them tomorrow?

No matter how good you are at multitasking, you can't really brood on guilt and death and flirt at the same time. Melze seemed very slightly disappointed when, ten minutes later, Paul explained that he had a bit of a headache and he'd better go home now. But she replied that it was probably the cold, and she was sure he'd be better in the morning. A hot Lemsip and two paracetamol, she suggested. She did rather make it sound like she cared. Infuriating, how something like that can be truly wonderful and an absolute disaster at the same time.

‘It's okay,' Benny Shumway announced at 2.15 p.m. on the eleventh day. ‘I can see to the banking myself.'

Paul could have wept with relief, except— ‘No, I don't mind, really,' he said. ‘I'm sort of getting used to it,' he added, truthful as Bill Clinton. ‘It's not so bad once you know what to expect.' But Benny shook his head. ‘I'm not being nice,' he replied. ‘But there's a rush job come up, and one of us's got to go and see to it.'

‘Oh.'

‘Quite.' Benny pulled a face. ‘Because if you were to ask me, do I think you're ready to be let out on your own doing heroism, the answer'd have to be no. But one of us has got to do it, and one of us has got to nip out to the bank. Do you see what—?'