Doughnut - By Tom Holt Page 0,29
haven’t got any money.”
“Doesn’t matter. Just say you want to look at it first. Sure, the baker’ll probably think you’re nuts, but three seconds later you’re going to vanish into thin air right in front of his eyes, so really, image-wise, what’ve you got to lose?” He paused, while Theo treated him to a drowning-puppy stare. “I think it’s a pretty neat idea, actually. Easy, quick, gets the job done, and in a YouSpace universe, anywhere you go you’re never more than a hundred yards from a cake shop.”
Suddenly, Theo remembered the excellent doughnuts in the hotel kitchen. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll just go and get one, then.”
Help nodded. “You won’t be needing me any more, then, so I’ll just—” He mimed walking with his fingers. “We can pick this up next time you visit,” he said.
Next time, Theo said to himself. Absolutely no chance of that. “Sure,” he said.
“Right. Well, ciao for now.” Help turned and trotted away down the hill, still limping, until he was lost to sight against the corn. Theo waited, to make absolutely sure he’d gone, then followed the line the old man had shown him. Sure enough, after about a quarter of a mile, he saw a canvas tent with a table in front of it. Behind the table stood a large, red-faced man in an apron, who was laying out loaves of bread. He looked up as Theo approached and smiled.
“Hello,” Theo said. “Are you a baker?”
“That’s right.” The red-faced man nodded. “Like my father before me. Sixteen generations, in fact. What can I do for you?”
The loaves smelt wonderful. Also there were lardy cakes, strudels, Viennese fingers, baguettes, apple turnovers, eclairs and macaroons. “Got any doughnuts?”
The baker’s smile didn’t falter, but it did sort of glaze over ever so slightly. “Yes.”
“I’d like one, please.”
“All right.” The baker didn’t move. “If you’re sure.”
“Oh yes.”
“You wouldn’t rather have a nice strudel? Gingerbread? Muffin?”
“Tempting, but I think I’ll stick with the doughnut, thanks.”
Still smiling, the baker nodded slightly. “You’re the boss. One farthing.”
Theo could feel his nerve breaking up. “Could I see it first, please?”
The smile was now a mask. “What for?”
“Oh, I just like to see what I’m buying.”
“They’re doughnuts,” the baker said. “Just doughnuts. Precision-baked to Guild specifications. Which means,” he added, “that each one is exactly the same as any other. Guaranteed.”
This isn’t going to work, Theo thought. “Humour me,” he said.
Very slowly, without breaking eye contact, the baker reached behind him into the tent and pulled out a tray of doughnuts. “There you go,” he said, keeping the tray well out of Theo’s reach, “doughnuts. Just the one, was it?”
Theo swallowed. His mouth was as dry as a hot summer in the Kalahari. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like a closer look.”
He could see the baker hesitate. “Look,” he said, still holding the tray, “no offence, but you’re not going to—”
“What?”
The smile was coming unravelled. “You’re not going to do anything weird, are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Like, well—” The baker’s fingers tightened on the tray. “Like, well, vanish. Disappear. Nothing like that?”
“Good heavens, no,” Theo croaked. “Perish the thought.”
The baker breathed out through his nose. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Like I said, no offence. But there’s this nutcase comes round here. Short guy, fat, bald, talks funny. And every time, he asks to look at a doughnut, and as soon as I give him one, he vanishes.”
“You don’t say.”
The baker shrugged. “I know it sounds screwy,” he said apologetically. “Hell, it is screwy. I mean, people don’t just vanish, it’s not possible. Only this guy does. And it’s starting to get to me, you know?”
“I can imagine.”
The baker sighed, and rested the tray on the table. “Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I’m thinking, am I going crazy, or what? People vanishing. I don’t dare tell anyone – my wife, the guys down the Bakers’ Guild, they’d think I was nuts or something. I’m not sure I could take it if it happened again.”
Theo nodded. “But I’m not a short, fat, bald man,” he said.
“I know. That’s what’s keeping me from smashing your head in with a baking tin. Because I swear, if that guy shows up round here again, that’s what I’m gonna do. Sixteen generations of bakers, and nothing like that’s ever happened before. Of course,” he added, looking round and lowering his voice, “it wouldn’t have happened under the old duke.”
“Really.”
“You bet your life. It’s only since this new guy’s been in