My Hero by Tom Holt Page A

And you use a feather or something to get the bits of dust and crap out of my works. Then I might consider explaining.’
    Skinner hadn’t the faintest idea what Rangoon oil was when it was at home, but he found a coffee pot and an iron stove with a broken leg, and there was water in the horses’ troughs. He scalded his fingers painfully trying to dribble water out of the pot down the Scholfield’s barrel.
    â€˜That’s better. You’ve missed a bit down in the forcing cone, but you can do that later. Right then, why are you here?’
    Skinner shook his head. ‘You tell me,’ he said.
    â€˜You shot your hero. You’re not supposed to do that.’
    â€˜But that’s crazy,’ Skinner replied. ‘People kill off their heroes all the time. Look at Shakespeare, for Chrissakes.’
    â€˜Ah, but not personally. They get other characters to do it for them. Actually taking a gun and shooting them yourself is against the rules.’
    â€˜What rules?’
    â€˜Which means,’ the Scholfield went on, ‘you have to
take his place. That’s only if he insists, of course. I guess Slim insisted. Probably he didn’t like you very much.’
    â€˜But . . .’
    â€˜And who can blame him? You really made life hell for that sucker, believe me. How could you fail to notice he was meant to be a villain, for God’s sake?’
    Skinner shook his head. As a method of field testing the maxim ‘Truth is stranger than fiction’, it was certainly thorough; but he couldn’t help wishing someone other than himself had got the job.
    â€˜All right,’ he said wearily. ‘So what do I do now? And how do I get back home?’
    There was silence for a moment as the Scholfield considered its reply. Tact comes as naturally to full-bore handguns as, say, ice-skating to African elephants, but there comes a time when an exceptional individual is prepared to stand up and break the mould.
    â€˜In answer to your second question, you can’t. Turning to the first question . . .’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜Assuming you’re looking for a nice, simple, relatively painless answer to all your problems . . .’
    â€˜Well?’
    â€˜You could always try shooting yourself.’
    Â 
    â€˜. . . And he’s still there,’ Jane concluded. ‘Thirty odd years later.’ She paused. ‘Isn’t that awful ?’
    She waited for a reply. Eventually, she heard the sound of Regalian heaving a long sigh.
    â€˜Sunny up where you are, is it?’
    â€˜No, not particularly.’
    â€˜Right, so we can rule out sunstroke. And it isn’t April the First, though it might conceivably be some forward-thinking individual getting his joke in early to avoid the
seasonal bottleneck. Otherwise, I can only imagine you’ve been drinking.’
    â€˜But . . .’
    â€˜In which case,’ Regalian went on, ‘jolly good luck to you, I can see the merits of your chosen course of action. Still, I’d prefer it if the next time you ring me up to breathe gin fumes at me you don’t choose my day off. Goodbye.’
    â€˜Hang on , will you?’
    His author’s voice. Unwillingly Regalian paused, then put the receiver back to his ear.
    â€˜Look,’ Jane said, ‘I know it all sounds a bit cock-eyed . . .’
    â€˜Cock-eyed!’
    â€˜. . . But I’m convinced. I don’t know why, but I am.’
    â€˜You’re the fantasy expert.’
    â€˜Yes,’ Jane replied. ‘But that’s got nothing to do with it. I swear to you, I believed him. I still do.’
    â€˜Listen,’ Regalian said, ‘I’m holding my watch close to the phone so you can hear the ticking. Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine - there, another gullible idiot’s just been born, you have company.’
    â€˜Look . . .’
    Regalian sighed again. ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ he said.