Barking by Tom Holt

by rats.’
    â€˜No, not really.’
    â€˜Well, then.’ Luke sounded happy , for crying out loud. ‘Sorted. Tell you what. Drop in some time tomorrow morning, give us a chance to clear all the crap out of the upstairs front office. Do you prefer tea or coffee mid-morning?’
    â€˜What? Oh, tea.’
    â€˜Fine. No rush. I generally drift in around ten-ish, unless I’ve got to be in court. Give me half an hour to get the morning clutter out of the way, any time after that that suits you.’
    â€˜Um,’ Duncan said.
    â€˜That’s really good news,’ Luke said. ‘The others’ll be chuffed to buggery when I tell them.’
    How could he be so sure of that? ‘Listen, are you absolutely sure—?’
    â€˜See you tomorrow. Bye.’
    â€˜Bye,’ Duncan replied into the dialling tone. He put the phone back, then wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. One can of beer, a packet of plastic ham slices and a carrot. He ripped open the beer and drank it, but it bloated rather than anaesthetised him. He went back to his chair, sat down and closed his eyes.
    Whether it was nervous exhaustion or the beer, he fell into a doze, which in turn slipped gradually into a dream. He was still in his chair, but in front of it was an office desk: a big, impressive thing made of shiny golden oak, with a green leather top. There was another desk next to his, and another in front of him; in fact, the room was full of the things, like a classroom. He looked up, and found that he was being glowered at by the teacher.
    â€˜Duncan,’ the teacher said. ‘Perhaps you’d like to share the joke with the rest of the class.’
    â€˜What, sir?’ he heard himself say.
    There was something in his hand. He clenched his fist around it, but too late; the teacher had seen it, and advanced on him like a siege-tower. He knew that if he opened his hand and let the teacher see it, whatever it was, he’d be in all sorts of trouble.
    â€˜All right,’ the teacher said. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got.’
    He knew what it was: the ripped-off lapel of a jacket. To be precise, the lapel from the teacher’s suit. ‘I haven’t got anything, sir, honest,’ he said. ‘You can trust me, sir, I’m a lawyer.’
    He raised his hand, opened it and showed that it was empty. The teacher nodded, then vanished in a shower of green sparks, as the rest of the class cheered.
    Â 
    The architecture of the office in Mortmain Street was early Mordor with strong Dalek influence: a gleaming rectangular tower of black glass, with fountains and palm trees in the entrance lobby, and doormen who looked as though they’d turn to stone in an instant if they happened to be exposed to direct sunlight. Ferris and Loop were on the twenty-first floor. The lift moved so fast, Duncan had an unsettling feeling that he arrived before he’d left.
    The twenty-first floor, seen through the lift doors as they opened, wasn’t what he’d been expecting at all. There was a great deal of oak panelling, dark and glowing as though beeswaxed by generations of housemaids. The carpet on the floor was deep and expensive but softened with long use; old and very well cared for. The front desk was apparently genuine antique, beautifully figured and carved walnut but with heavily scratched legs. On the walls hung ancient, slightly faded tapestries, in what Duncan guessed was supposed to be Elizabethan style: hunting scenes and so forth. In one corner stood something that looked like a sawn-off church font: a large granite bowl on a marble plinth.
    Reception was a small, elderly bald man with a pointed nose and very large ears. ‘Ah yes,’ he said, when Duncan told him his name. ‘Mr Ferris is expecting you,’ he added, making it sound as if Duncan was either the Messiah or Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent. ‘If you’d care to take a