Don’t be like that.

“What?” Asaf said aloud. His voice, he couldn’t help noticing, seemed to be coming out through his socks; something to do with the rather unusual acoustics inside an ink-bottle.

Hostile. I can definitely sense hostility. I’m only here because I thought you might be feeling lonely.

“How the hell am I supposed to feel lonely in something this size?”

Fair point. I’ll be going, then.

“Wait!”

Silence. But then again, he reflected, there would be, wouldn’t there? Since, apparently, whoever it was in here with him was either a disembodied spirit or…

A telepath. Bit of both, actually. Go with the flow, that’s always been my motto.

“Who are you?”

Name? Or job description?

“Both.”

All-righty. My name’s Pivot, and I’m the duty GA.

“GA?”

Guardian angel. Since whatever it was, was simply a suggestion of words in his mind, there was no way it could actually sound embarrassed. But it somehow gave the impression.

“Bit late, aren’t you?” Asaf grumbled. “Nine hours ago I could have used you.”

I know, Pivot replied. But like I said, I’m duty GA for this whole sector. I got held up on a call the other side of Bazrah. I came as quick as I could.

“I see.” Asaf took a deep breath; or at least, the top slice of one. “Well, now you’re here…”

I can keep your morale up and comfort you with homely snippets of folk wisdom and popular philosophy.

“That’s it?”

Sorry.

“Like, It’s a funny old world, that sort of thing?”

You’ve got the idea.

“Fine. Well, I expect you’ve got lots of other calls to attend to, so don’t let me…”

I know, replied Pivot sadly, it’s not exactly a great help. But that’s all I’m able to do for you under the scheme. Lots of people actually do find it remarkably helpful.

“I see.”

If you were being tortured, of course, or even briskly interrogated, that’d be another matter entirely. I could remind you of your rights and exhort you to display fortitude and moral courage in the face of adversity.

“Gosh. Well, it’s just as well I’m not, then, isn’t it?”

There was silence in Asaf’s mind for a while, and he spent the time thinking all the most uncharitable thoughts he could muster, in the hope of persuading Pivot to leave quickly.

It’d be different if you were a fee-paying client, of course.

“Sorry?”

Morale-raising and verbal comfort are all I’m allowed to offer under the scheme. If you want to go private, of course, I’m sure I could be even more helpful still.

“Such as?”

Such as getting you out of here, for a start.

“Done.”

Plus, there’s our fully comprehensive after-care package, of course. We don’t just ditch our clients the moment they get out of the bottle; oh dear, no. We can offer advice on a wide spectrum of issues, including financial advice, investment strategy, pensions…

“Whatever you like. Just get me out of—”

If you’d just care to sign this client services agreement. There, there and there…

Asaf growled ominously. “I’d just like to point out,” he said, “that my hands are wedged against the side of this bottle so hard my circulation stopped about seven hours ago. I think signing anything’s going to be a bit tricky.”

Oh. Oh, that is a nuisance. Because, you see, the rules say I can’t really do anything for you unless you sign the forms. I have my compliance certificate to think of, you know.

Asaf gritted his teeth. “I promise I’ll sign them the moment I’m free,” he said. “Word of honour.”

Ah yes, Pivot replied, but how do I know you’re not a FIMBRA agent in disguise? You could be trying to entrap me.

“Why not-take the risk? I’ll have you know I’m shortly going to come into wealth beyond the dreams of avarice.” He paused significantly. “I shall need,” he said, biting his tongue, “all sorts of financial advice, I feel sure.”

Is that so?

“Definitely.”

Life insurance?

“As much as I can lay my hands on.”

Pensions?

“By the bucketful. I shall want as many pensions as I can possibly get.”

Stone me. It’s been months since I sold a pension. Are you sure you’re not a FIMBRA agent?

“Absolutely bloody positive. Now, could you please get me out of this fucking bottle?”

At the back of his mind, Asaf could feel Pivot wriggling uncomfortably. I still have bad feelings about all this. The rules really are terribly strict.

“Couldn’t you…” Asaf squirmed with agony as a spasm of cramp shot down his spinal column. “Couldn’t you sign them for me? As my agent or whatever?”

Hum. Not really. Not unless you sign a power of attorney I happen to have one with me, by the way.

“Oh, for crying out loud…”

I’m sorry, sighed Pivot. I’d really love to help, but you know how it is. Now, are you ready for some homely snippets yet? We could start with, “It’s always darkest before the dawn”, or we could…

“No!” Asaf jerked violently in protest, and in doing so fetched the back of his head a terrific crack on the wall of the bottle. “Just you dare, and the moment I’m out of this sodding contraption—”

He stopped in mid-snarl. The walls were creaking. Obviously, the blow from his head had damaged the glass. Now if he could only…

I’ve also got one about not beating your head against a brick wall, continued Pivot helpfully. And I can customise it to refer to the sides of glass bottles for a very modest…

Crash. The glass gave way and suddenly Asaf was out, sprawled full-length — six feet of cramp and muscle spasms — on a flat field of grass. There were shards of broken bottle sticking into him in all sorts of places.

There, I told you we’d have you out of there in no time, said Pivot, recovering well. That’ll be, let’s see, seven minutes at a hundred dirhams an hour, so by my reckoning that’s…

Asaf lifted his head, and thought long and hard about what he would like to do to the next supernatural being who crossed his path. By the time he’d finished, something told him he was very much alone.

Jane looked around her, and clicked her tongue. She was bored.

Not just bored in the nothing-to-do sense; she was bored to the marrow, half-past-four-on-a-Sunday-afternoon-in-Wales bored. And nothing much, as far as she could see, to be done about it.

Bloody genie! What the hell was the point of being able to have anything you want if all you have to do in order to get it is want it?

Still, she consoled herself while moving a small china ornament two inches to the right, once we’re married there won’t be any more of that. No more of this supernatural nonsense. We can just be ordinary people…

Ordinary people…

Yes, well. At least ordinary people can go shopping. When you’re the proprietress of a Force Twelve genie, one thing you can’t do is shop. No sooner have you written down something on your list than it’s there, delivered in a fraction of a second, very best quality, from Harrods. But what’s the point of having things if you can’t shop for them first?

Jane steeled herself. She was a free woman, with an inalienable right to shop. And shop she would.

She glanced down at her feet and noticed that on the patch of floor directly below her, approximately five feet by seven, there was no rug. Everywhere else there were rugs; the very finest rugs ever, whisked here by arcane forces and precisely, down to the last fibre, what she’d wanted. Well, it would have to stop somewhere, and here was as good a place as any. She would go out, and buy a rug.

The resolution once made, she softened slightly. All the other rugs in the place — all the furniture and fittings, come to that — were her choice, and she knew for a fact that Kiss didn’t really like them much. A bit thin on the barbaric splendour, he considered, while maybe slightly overstressing the cosy and colour-coordinated.