Free In Your Dreams by Tom Holt, Tom Holt

dragon.’
    â€˜Just a dragon,’ Paul parroted.
    Mr Shumway nodded. ‘Twelve-year-old doe, seven and a half feet, about three hundred pounds. Damn thing’d got itself nicely dug in down in the stacks of the V&A. Cunning little bitch, I’ll give her that. Got hold of a sack of cement from somewhere and rolled in it, then went and stood in a corner, nice and still. It’d been there six months before they realised it wasn’t just another statue, and then they only found out because it sneezed.’ He sighed. ‘I tried smoking it out, but they didn’t like that, reckoned it’d damage the paintings and stuff. Couldn’t use explosives, obviously, or the fifty-calibre; and they wanted rid of it PDQ, so poison was out. Meant I had to get rid of it manually, what Corporal Jones would’ve called the old cold steel.’ He stretched his back and winced. ‘I’m getting too old for all that,’ he sighed. ‘’Course, young Ricky, he loves all that shit. But he’s not here, is he?’ Mr Shumway growled. ‘Off prancing around with Gren— with this special project,’ he amended abruptly. ‘And you aren’t fit to be out on your own yet, which just leaves me. Just as well I got this book, because I’ve got bank reconciliations to do this afternoon, I can’t afford a week off flat on my back having skin grafts.’
    Paul didn’t say anything. He had no idea what colour he’d turned – white, or green – but he hoped it wasn’t too obvious.
    â€˜Anyway.’ Mr Shumway’s beard was back to its usual length, and he was wriggling his shoulder to see if it was working properly again. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Didn’t feel like dragging up three flights of stairs. Where were you off to in such a hurry, anyhow?’
    Paul squirmed a little. ‘Oh, just lunch,’ he said.
    â€˜Lunch.’ Mr Shumway grinned. ‘You mean, you wanted to get down to reception before that new bird had a chance to get away. Quick off the mark, I’ll give you that. But you’ll just have to tie a knot in it for today. We’ve got training to do, remember?’
    â€˜Training,’ Paul said.
    Mr Shumway nodded. ‘Which means,’ he said, ‘you missing lunch for a week or so. Which is cruel and harsh and a bloody fucking tragedy of epic proportions, but never mind. I’ll be missing lunch too, and you won’t see me crying my eyes out over it.’
    â€˜Oh, that’s fine,’ Paul said, bright and brittle. ‘Doesn’t bother me. Um, thanks for giving up your lunch hour, it’s—’
    â€˜Don’t crawl,’ said Mr Shumway. ‘If the Good Lord had intended us to crawl, he’d have given us a hundred legs and an exoskeleton.’ He stood up. Apart from the white dust on his clothes and the (let’s not kid ourselves) bloodstains on his hands, he looked perfectly normal. ‘My office,’ he said, putting the tatty book back in the box, ‘five minutes. You have, of course, read all that stuff I told you to read?’
    â€˜What? Oh, sure.’
    â€˜Very sensible.’ Mr Shumway grinned at him. ‘Because if you hadn’t, it would’ve been unpleasant, I’m telling you. That old survival instinct’ll pull you through every time.’

Chapter Three
    P aul didn’t enjoy the next ten working days. In the morning, there was paperwork: all the admin and procedural stuff that every true hero gets some other poor bugger to do for him. There were applications in triplicate for Section Fifteen exemptions, incident reports, written notifications of intention to use restricted weapons in built-up areas, stores requisitions, expenses vouchers and mileage allowance chits (Mr Wurmtoter got ninety-five pence a mile for his winged horse; Benny Shumway got thirty-five pence a mile for his D-reg Suzuki jeep, but mostly seemed to