Falling Sideways by Tom Holt

Pope.’
    â€˜All right,’ David said. ‘Let’s suppose for a moment that it’s all true, what you’ve been telling me. So why don’t I remember it that way?’
    She looked at him. ‘I was trying to be polite,’ she said. ‘But, if you insist. You’re the one who’s acting really strange, if you must know. But Uncle John said that’s only to be expected. Because of the fumes.’
    â€˜Fumes?’
    â€˜The fumes from the polymer tank. You breathed in rather a lot of them, and it’s a well-known fact that they can have a funny effect on people who aren’t used to them. Temporary amnesia. Delusions, even. It’s all right, the effects go away within forty-eight hours.’
    â€˜So why aren’t you—?’
    â€˜I’m used to them,’ she said quickly. ‘Chemistry student, remember? And besides, I’ve been hanging round Uncle’s workshop since I was little. You build up a tolerance.’
    They’d reached the bus stop. She made a show of reading the timetables.
    â€˜That’s all very well,’ David persisted. ‘But it still doesn’t explain—’
    â€˜Wrong bus,’ she interrupted. ‘We need a number seven. Or a number thirty-three.’
    â€˜That still doesn’t explain two things,’ David ground on, feeling as though he was wading through hip-deep snow. ‘One, why you need a whole new wardrobe—’
    She laughed. ‘You obviously don’t know what that stuff does to clothes. Fzzzz. all gone.’
    â€˜And you haven’t got a change of clothes where you’re staying?’
    â€˜No, as a matter of fact I haven’t. I only came down to visit, I didn’t bring a bag or anything.’
    He could feel the snow getting thicker and stiffer; but it was still all false, it had no right being there. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Number two. If all this is true, what you’ve been telling me, how come you look exactly like the portrait of a seventeenth-century witch in the National Gallery?’
    She stared at him, then giggled. ‘Say that again,’ she said.
    â€˜There’s a painting in the National Gallery that looks exactly like you,’ David said grimly. ‘Absolutely identical. Care to explain that?’
    â€˜How absolutely fascinating!’ She smiled. ‘So, do tell. Who’s it a painting of? Anybody famous?’
    â€˜I just told you, a seventeenth-century witch. Her name was Philippa Levens—’
    Her smile broadened a little; and now he wasn’t wading through snow, he was a snowman, and the sun had just come out. He could feel everything he’d always thought he was melting away.
    â€˜Ah, right,’ she said. ‘That painting. Yes, I suppose I do look a bit like her. After all, she’s my – what, great-great-great-several-more-greats-aunt. Mummy always said I’ve got the family nose (which sounds rather revolting if you ask me).’ She shrugged her slender shoulders. ‘There’s a slight resemblance, I’ll give you that. Sorry, you threw me off track there by saying the picture looks just like me, that’s why the penny didn’t drop for a second.’ Her stare was cutting into him like a plasma torch. ‘So,’ she said, ‘was that your Big Deal Number Two?’
    He nodded.
    â€˜Fine.’ She was silent for a moment, then added, ‘I’m sorry if I sounded a bit snappy just then, I didn’t mean to. I should be more sympathetic, because I do know, it can feel really strange sometimes when you’ve breathed in those fumes.’
    â€˜The poly whatsit?’ He fumbled for the right word, but it slipped away. ‘The green stuff in the tank?’
    â€˜That’s right, yes. But it does go away, I promise. No harmful effects.’
    â€˜Ah. Right. So in a few hours it’ll all be back to normal and I should start