Tom Holt: Djinn Rummy

“I see,” Jane said coldly. “Do please go on.”)

Anyway (said Kiss) eventually the Securities Commission caught up and it was a case of into the sack and off to the Bosphorus for him, and bloody good riddance too. Not, however, much fun for me, because I was in the lamp at the time. And in the lamp I stayed. For five hundred years, with nothing to do except play I Spy. Something, I need hardly tell you, beginning with L.

Just when I was starting to go lamp-crazy, though, off comes the lid and there’s this bloke in a sort of fawn safari suit peering in at me and saying something about typical thirteenth-century Bokhara ware, probably indicative of developing commercial links with the Ummayads. That’s right, a blasted archaeologist. There are times when you don’t know when you’re well off.

You’ll never guess what his three wishes were. Well, if you know anything about archaeology, maybe you can. As I understand it, in order to become an archaeologist you have to spend your youth stuck in some dusty old library reading books about bits of broken pot. You don’t have time for going to parties, or girls. By the time you do have time, it’s generally too late — unless, that is, you suddenly find yourself with a virtually omnipotent spiritual assistant and three wishes.

Anyway, after that I needed a year at the bottom of a disused mine-shaft just to recover and get over the embarrassment; after which I got a job as a clerk in a shipping office. It was the least exciting thing I could think of. I was right.

And then, just when I was thinking about what I was going to do next and how much fun I could have with superhuman powers and absolutely no social conscience, I got stuck in the bottle you so kindly extracted me from. No, I’m not prepared to go into details; and if you want any co-operation at all from me in the course of what promises to be a long and interesting working relationship, you’ll respect my privacy on that one. OK?

“Superhuman powers?” Jane queried.

Kiss nodded. “Pretty superhuman,” he replied, “and I don’t have to dash into the nearest phone box and change first, either. Although,” he added, “all that stuff was a front. He didn’t need to change at all, it was just part of the act.”

Jane’s eyes widened. “You mean Superman—?”

“No names,” Kiss replied, “no pack drill. But it’s true, there’s more of us about than people think. We’ve sort of rehabilitated ourselves in the community, if you like to look at it that way.”

“I see.” Jane was staring out of the window. “You know,” she said, “I’m so confused about all of this that I almost believe in you. Am I going mad, do you think?”

Kiss paused before answering. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?” he said. “Seems to me that you’re that much ahead of the game, so don’t knock it. That reminds me. The suicide thing. Why?”

Jane shook her head. “We’d better respect each other’s privacy,” she said. “Fair enough?”

“Your wish, etcetera. Right,” said the genie, “what’s it to be? Shall we kick off with the wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, get that out of the way before the banks close?”

“That’s possible, is it?”

“Piece of duff.” Kiss yawned and picked a stray morsel of fluff out of his hair. It turned into a two-headed snake, burst into flames and vanished. “Swiss francs are what we usually recommend, although gold bullion has a lot going for it. Up to you, really.”

Jane shook her head. “Later,” she said. “Let’s just have a look at this book and see what it has to say.”

She opened the manual.

1.1 Getting To Know Your Genie

“Gosh,” Jane said.

“You’re probably way ahead of me,” Kiss was saying, “but just in case you were tempted to, don’t look down. Or at least, not straight down. Vertigo is one of the things I can’t do anything about, oddly enough.”

Below them, on Nevsky Prospekt, the traffic roared; so far below them that all Jane could see was one continuous stream of white light and another of red. Further away, the absurd spire of the Cathedral of St Peter and St Paul loomed up into the night sky, like a spear aimed at the moon…

“For God’s sake look where you’re going. We nearly flew straight into that pointy thing.”

“Sorry,” Kiss replied. “I’m a touch out of practice at flying two up. It’s a bit like riding a motorbike with a sidecar, really, you have to remember to compensate—”

“Look,” Jane interrupted, as they flashed past the Admiralty Tower with at least six thousandths of an inch to spare, “where the hell are we?”

“St Petersburg.”

“St Petersburg?”

Kiss shrugged — under the circumstances, an act of carelessness verging on criminal recklessness. “You said take me somewhere foreign,” he said, as Jane hauled herself back up between the base of his wings. “St Petersburg’s foreign. Can’t get much more foreign than St Petersburg, if you ask me. That down there, by the way, is the Prospekt Stachek, and that impressive-looking thing with the crinkly walls is in fact a processed meat plant, would you believe. Designed by Rubanchik and Barutchev in 1929—”

“Put me down.”

“As you wish. Anywhere in particular?”

“Yes. The ground. Quickly!”

The ground selected by Kiss for a landing strip turned out to be a pelican crossing on the Ulitsa Zodchevo Rossi, much to the chagrin of the driver of a lorry-load of Brussels sprouts who was just about to drive over it. For the record, the lightning-fast swerve by which he managed to avoid running Jane and her invisible companion over was witnessed by no less a person than the acting secretary of the local bus-driver’s co-operative, who offered him a job as soon as he was released from hospital.

“No offence,” Kiss said, as they crossed the road, “but you’re a lousy passenger. You may think that screaming Oh God, we’re going to die! and grabbing hold of my left wing just when I’m doing the tricky part of the landing process is being helpful, but in actual fact…”

Jane sat down on the steps of a building and closed her eyes. “I think,” she said, “I’ll take the train back, if it’s all the same to you.”

Kiss was offended. “I’d just like to remind you,” he said, “that if you’d had your way, you’d have killed yourself by now. When it comes to a total disregard for the value of human life, I think you’re the one who’s into melanistic kettle spotting.”

Jane looked up at him angrily. “To recap,” she said. “Any wish I like, so long as it’s physically possible?”

“That’s right. OUCH!”

“Thank you.”

“There was no call,” Kiss said, rubbing the place on the side of his head where he had just thumped himself very hard, “for that. If you’re not happy about something, all you have to do is say. Remember that, and we’ll get on just fine.”

Jane got to her feet. “Now then,” she said. “Yes, I’m convinced. You are a genie, and you exist. I think I’d like to go home. Slowly.”

“Your wish is my—”

“And peacefully. Straight and level. You think you can manage that?”

“I’ll give it,” Kiss replied, “my best shot.”

“Is that it?”

Kiss made no reply; he just took off his pinny, folded it neatly and put it back behind the door. Then he started the washing-up.

“And these little bits of grey grisly stuff,” Jane went on. “You’re sure they’re really necessary?”

“Quails” guts Marengo,” Kiss replied. “Where I come from, that’s about as haut as cuisine can get. Fried in butter, or served as a crudité with a simple green salad…”

Jane put down her fork and folded her arms. “No thanks,” she said. “Just take it away and bring me a boiled egg. A hen’s egg,” she added quickly; but not quickly enough.