In Your Dreams by Tom Holt, Tom Holt Page B

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—’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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