House of Many Doors by Ian Richards

Author:Ian Richards [Richards, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Merry Go Round Books
Published: 2014-03-29T00:00:00+00:00

23 - On The Run

‘Get us out of here!’

Though Vanessa screamed the instruction at the top of her voice, the genie didn’t move. It remained hovering in the alleyway, wrapped up in veils of brightly colored smoke. The smell of peaches had become almost sickly now. It consumed everything.

‘Do it,’ she shouted, drawing Tony’s body tighter to her chest. ‘They’re right behind us. We don’t have time for this.’

The genie’s reply was slow and solemn.

‘I have but one master,’ it said. ‘Only he may command me.’

‘Oh, for goodness … Tony—Tony—Wake up, you imbecile. Make your wish.’

Tony tried to speak but his tongue lay flat and heavy in his mouth. The blow to his head had scrambled his senses. His thoughts fluttered like swarming butterflies. ‘Do it,’ he managed to murmur. His skull felt as if it had been split in two. Maybe it had. There was enough blood. ‘Take us away …’

At once the air filled with the sound of gushing smoke. He was aware of the hurried footsteps of Krook and Kepler advancing towards them, the cool rain running down his face.

Then the world lost its voice.

Instead of frantic drama there was eerie calm—a stillness of sound that enveloped him like a cocoon. He listened to this nothingness, not daring to open his eyes, at peace in a way that made little sense but felt warm and deep, embryonic and perfect. His head no longer hurt. Nothing did. He felt as if he had been physically erased from existence, every part of him wiped into nothingness.

To his surprise, the feeling was a pleasant one.

Tony slept.

*

Peach trees. A snowstorm of blossom. Hot sunlight playing on the grass. Arabian thunder. Spices. Babbling voices. Sandstorms. A rush of cold air. A burbling waterfall.

Then silence.

Blackness.

Rest …

*

He awoke to a world that no longer made any sense. Where was he? His eyes were too heavy to open—almost if they had been glued shut—but he could quite clearly make out several different sounds that appeared to have nothing to do with each other. There was the slip-slap-slip of waves lapping against a shore, the steady drone of morning traffic, and a far-off car radio playing The Queen Is Dead by the Smiths at a thumping volume. He was outside, he had established that much from the cold wind breezing around him. Though this wind carried with it the smell of pollutants, somehow it remained fresh and sharp at the same time, another contradiction that added to his sense of disorientation. He couldn’t sure whether he was in the Swiss Alps or a car park.

For several moments he lay motionless on the ground, lost in this jumble of conflicting sensations. His head throbbed, and though he tried to open his eyes the strain was too much for him. He focused instead on trying to reconstruct the night before. He remembered The Green Man pub—and racing back to the shop to find the antiques Martell had hidden there. He remembered Krook and Kepler chasing him out into the courtyard at the back of the shop.

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