“Idiots,” he muttered softly. “All right, give me the stones and sling your hook.”
“Allah be praised, oh my prince,” said the girl nervously, rather as if she’d been expecting a rather different cue. “Thanks to you—”
“Yes,” Asaf said. “We’ll take all that as read, shall we? The stones, please.”
Behind him there was a roar of triumph. The third rider lay slumped on the sand, and the first rider was brandishing his sword again.
“If I were you,” Asaf said, “I’d hand them over and get the hell out of here before those two sort out their differences. Keep straight on down this road about ten miles and you’ll find a telephone box. Phone the police. OK?”
The girl nodded, confused, and handed him a white cloth bag which held something heavy. Before she could say anything else, Asaf turned on his heel, hobbled back to the van and slammed the door.
“I trust,” he said, putting the van into gear and driving off, “that there’s not going to be much more of this sort of thing, because a man can only take so much pratting around before his patience starts to wear thin. I’m telling you this,” he added, “just so’s you’ll know. OK?”
“OK, mate. Actually…”
Asaf turned his head and gave the King a long, cold look. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “There’s more.”
“Fair crack of the whip, chum, it is a quest.”
Asaf glanced quickly in the mirror, slowed down and started to turn the van around.
“Hey,” the King protested, “what are you…”
“Going home,” Asaf replied. “Look, I may just be a simple fisherman, but I have my self-respect. So let’s just call it quits. You get out of my life and stay out, and everything will be fine.”
“But the sheila,” the King said. “It’s all fixed up!”
“Then unfix it.”
“I can’t!”
Asaf stopped the van. “What,” he asked quietly, “does that mean?”
The King bit his lips. “Like I said,” he replied mournfully.
“Everything’s set up. You wished, remember?”
“Wealth without limit was what I wished for,” Asaf replied. “There wasn’t anything in the original specifications about running amok killing and stealing half-way across the blasted continent.”
“For pity’s sake, mate, this is my job on the line here. I’ve made arrangements…”
Asaf leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “All right,” he sighed. “On three conditions.”
“Anything.”
“One, you don’t sing.”
“No worries, mate, not another note.”
“Two,” said Asaf, “we keep these stupid adventures to the basic minimum. No magic spells, no more beautiful maidens than absolutely necessary, and positively no gratuitous folldore. Agreed?”
“You got it.”
“Three.” He leaned forward and turned the key in the ignition. “Keep your bloody shoes on.”
Two genies, rather the worse for six pints apiece of semi-skimmed with double-cream chasers, lurched out of Saheed’s and hailed a taxi.
“Where to?”
“Isson this bitta paper,” mumbled Nick. “Fastasyoulike.”
“You’re the boss,” replied the taxi. It hovered for a moment, straightening out its corners, and lowered itself to ground level. The genies climbed aboard.
“Home, James,” Con declaimed, “an’ don’t spare the Axminster.”
The carpet rose like a very flat Harrier, made itself stiff in every fibre of its being, and shimmered away into the night sky.
The cold air, rushing past their ears, served to cut the milk fug, and by the time they arrived at the destination scribbled on the milk-mat both genies were — not sober, exactly, but at least 90 per cent in charge of their principal motor functions. The ideal state, in other words, for attempting something very silly indeed.
“Right,” said Nick. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” Con replied. “Here, I’m not so sure this is a very brilliant idea…
“Shuttup.” Nick rubbed his eyes and said the shape-changing spell aloud. It worked. “Your turn,” he said.
“I still think—”
“Get on with it.”
“All right.” Con mumbled the magic words; and he too changed shape. The carpet braked smoothly and began its descent.
“Here, Con,” Nick whispered. “Remind me. Which one am I supposed to be?”
Con shrugged. “I’ve forgotten,” he admitted. “Let’s have a look at you.”
“Well?”
Con rubbed his chin. “I think,” he said after a while, “you’re the tall one. Wossisname.”
“I see. So you’re…?”
“The other one.”
“Fine. I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out.”
The carpet came to rest. The two genies climbed off and paid the fare, and then looked round. Nobody about. Probably just as well. What they were doing was, of course, unethical and probably highly illegal by genie standards. On the other hand, virtually everything genies do is.
“Here goes.”
“Break a leg.” Con extended a slightly unsteady arm and rang Jane’s doorbell.
“What do you mean,” Nick asked, “break a leg?”
“It’s something mortals say,” Con replied as the porch light came on. “Something to do with good luck.”
“It’s not good luck breaking a leg,” Nick said doubtfully. “Not if you’re a mortal, that is. Takes weeks to mend, a mortal leg does.”
“It’s just an expression.”
“Bloody silly one, if you ask me.”
The door opened and Jane stood in the doorway. She was wearing a pink winceyette dressing-gown and fluffy slippers.
“Ah,” said Nick, as smoothly as he could (but another half of pasteurised would, he realised, have been a wise precaution), “good evening, um, miss. My name’s Robert Redford and this is my friend Tom Cruise. Our car’s broken down and we were wondering if we could borrow your phone.”
Jane frowned. “It’s two o’clock in the morning,” she said.
If Nick was fazed for a moment, he didn’t show it. “Exactly what I was saying to Mr Cruise,” he replied. “Face it, Tom, I told him, chances of there being a garage open at this time of night are practically nil, so we’d better phone the breakdown service. And then, would you believe it, neither of us had any change. So we thought…”
In the background, the carpet lifted smoothly into the air, waggled its seams and glided away. “You’d better come in,” Jane said.
“Thanks.”
Jane shut the door. “You’re genies, aren’t you?” she said.
“An.”
“It’s the carpet,” Jane said over her shoulder, leading the way through into the living-room. “It’s a dead giveaway, that. Also,” she added wearily, “you obviously haven’t seen Mr Redford for quite some time. Not that he hasn’t worn quite well, but…”
Con took a deep breath. “Hey,” he said, “is this guy really a genie? Gosh, isn’t that.”
“And so are you,” Jane sighed. “You’re still wearing your slippers.”
The soi-disant Tom Cruise glanced down at his feet, which were encased in curly-toed gold slippers with jewels stuck to the uppers. “Damn,” he said.
“Sit down,” said Jane.
Nick smiled feebly. “Listen, Miss,” he said, “this has all been a big mistake, and…”
“Sit down.”
They sat down.
“And take those silly faces off, for heaven’s sake.”
They changed back into their proper shapes.
“Sorry,” Nick said.
“And so you should be.” Jane folded her arms and gave them each a look that would have made a woolly mammoth feel at home. “Men!” she added.
“I’m sorry?”
“Typical male idea of a joke,” Jane went on. “Oh gosh, Kiss is getting married, let’s go and play a joke on him. Puerile.”
“An.”
“Posing as extremely handsome film actors, you said to yourselves, let’s make some excuse to get in to her flat, so that when he comes round the next morning he’ll jump to the wrong conclusion, get madly jealous and they’ll have a row. How utterly childish!”