When It's A Jar


By Tom Holt

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Maurice has just killed a dragon with a bread knife. And had his destiny foretold. . . and had his true love spirited away. That’s precisely the sort of stuff that’d bring out the latent heroism in anyone. Unfortunately, Maurice is pretty sure he hasn’t got any latent heroism.

Meanwhile, a man wakes up in a jar in a different kind of pickle (figuratively speaking). He can’t get out, of course, but neither can he remember his name, or what gravity is, or what those things on the ends of his legs are called. . . and every time he starts working it all out, someone makes him forget again. Forget everything.

Only one thing might help him. The answer to the most baffling question of all. . .

When is a door not a door?


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When Is A Door—


Years ago, when he was a child, Maurice refused to go on the Underground because he was scared of all the dead people. His father had asked him a few questions and glanced at his bedside table, and explained that the Underground wasn't the same thing as the Underworld that he'd been reading about in his Myths & Legends of the Ancient Greeks book, which his aunt Jane had given him for his birthday. There were no dead people, three-headed dogs or sinister boatmen down there, his father promised him, just crowded platforms, unreliable trains, people in scruffy old coats who talked to themselves, a really quite small proportion of homicidal lunatics and a rather unsavoury smell. He'd been reassured (though he'd secretly quite fancied seeing a dog with three heads) and withdrawn his objection. Nevertheless, even now, there was something about it—

Especially at night, in the uneasy lull between the rush hour and the last junkies-drunks-and-theatre-goers specials, when the platforms are quiet and deserted and nobody can hear you scream; when the tiled corridors echo footsteps, and the trains, when they finally arrive, come bursting out of the darkness like dragons. Since he'd had to work late at the office recently–not because there was work to be done, but because the firm was rationalising, so everyone was sticking to their desks like limpets after nominal going-home time, to show how indispensable they were–he'd had more than his comfortable ration of nocturnal Tube travel recently, and it was starting to get on his nerves.

There were three people in the compartment when he got in, all women. There was an elderly bag lady in a thick wool coat, muttering to herself and knitting what looked like a sock. Opposite her was an elegant middle-aged businesswoman, with dark hair and glasses. She was knitting, too; that seemed a little out of character, but it was just starting to get fashionable again, or so his mother had told him. In the far corner there was a rather nice-looking girl, and she was knitting, which suggested his mother had been right about something, for once. In any event, they seemed harmless enough. He chose a seat in the middle of the carriage, sat down, opened his book and raised it in front of him, like a shield.

The windows were black, of course, so there was no visible world outside; all he could see in the one next to him was the reflection of the pretty girl, and it didn't do to dwell on pretty girls who might look up and figure out what you were doing. Instead, he looked up at the advertising boards. One caught his attention, as it had been designed to do—


That was all: white letters on a black background. For a moment he allowed himself to wonder who Theo Bernstein was and what he was selling. Then he realised he'd been ensnared by evil capitalists and looked away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the elegant businesswoman bite through a strand of wool with her teeth. It was an incongruously savage act–though perfectly reasonable, when he thought about it; after all, you aren't allowed to have sharp things on you in a public place. Teeth, however, are the oldest and most basic weapons of all.

The train had slowed down to the point where, with no view through the window, it was impossible to tell if it was moving or standing still. He yawned. He'd had enough of this journey. He was in the kind of limbo, between the culmination of one sequence of events and the start of another, that you get in restaurants after you've finished eating, before they bring the bill. He looked around for something (other than the pretty girl) to graze his mind on. Not much of that kind of thing in a Tube compartment. Further down the carriage, he saw four more black advert boards with white lettering. The Theo Bernstein people were clearly determined to get their message across. He shuffled in his seat to get comfy, and tried to read his book. But that was no good. It was a self-help thing She'd given him to read, shortly before She'd stormed out of his life, slamming the door on the sunlight, and he really couldn't be bothered. Coping with Rejection, snickered the chapter heading. Yeah, right.

"All that time, he never realised."

The old woman had spoken. He winced. He hoped she wasn't going to make a nuisance of herself.

"He never realised," she repeated, "that she was carrying on with his worst enemy, behind his back."

Oh God, he thought, and glanced up to see how many stops there were still to go. But, since he hadn't been keeping track, he wasn't entirely sure where he was. Could be anywhere.

"Right under his nose," said the elegant woman.

She hadn't looked up from her knitting. Maurice peered at her round the cover of his book. Odd, he thought.

"He'll find out quite soon," said the old woman. "He'll be heartbroken."

Actually, she didn't sound particularly batty. If anything, she sounded like a Radio 4 anchor. So, come to think of it, did the elegant woman, who now said, "That and losing his job."

Presumably, then, they knew each other. Then why were they sitting half a compartment apart?

"Of course," said the girl, "quite soon that'll be the least of his worries."

Um, he thought. So all three of them knew each other. The girl, who sounded like a trainee Radio 4 anchor, soon to make her debut seguing from the shipping forecast into Farming Today in the wee small hours, took a ball of green wool out of her pocket and, apparently without aiming, threw it across the compartment. The elegant woman caught it one-handed. She hadn't even looked up.

"Getting the new job will cheer him up," the old woman said.

The elegant woman threw her a ball of red wool.

"But not for long," the girl said. "He won't be able to enjoy it, because of the weird stuff."

The elegant woman frowned. "He'll find it suits him better."

"Up to a point," said the girl. "But then he'll make a big mistake."

"He always did have such a vivid imagination," sighed the old woman. "Even when he was a wee tot, bless him. Could I have the yellow, please, dear?" She raised her hand and a yellow ball sailed through the air, straight into her fingers. "Now I'm not quite sure what comes after that."

Something odd, really odd, about this conversation. "His friend," prompted the girl.

"What, the one who—?"

"His other friend," said the elegant woman. "Steve, in the army."

Maurice twitched. He had a friend called Steve, in the army. Of course, his Steve was a girl–Stephanie, at one time the boss barracuda in the Kandahar motor pool.

"That's right, silly of me. His friend Steve. She won't half give him a surprise."

A theory, born of desperation, floated into his mind: a variant on the old kissogram theme, he postulated, in which your friends hire paid performers to weird you out of your skull, while filming the whole thing on covert CCTV. Except he didn't have any friends with that sort of imagination or money, or who cared enough about him to go to so much trouble. In which case, it was just a coincidence. After all, lots of women called Stephanie get called Steve.

"He always did like her more than he cared to admit to himself," the old lady went on; and he thought, Coincidence? Seriously?

"Remind me," said the elegant woman. "What's the name of that boy they were both at school with? The one she eventually marries."

"You mean the one who became rich and famous? George something, wasn't it?"

George. Right, he thought, that's quite enough of that. He was just about to stand up, when he realised what the odd thing–the other odd thing–was. They were talking about the future

"It doesn't last, though," the girl said.

"Now then." The elegant woman sounded reproachful. "We're getting ahead of ourselves. If we're not careful, we'll drop a stitch."

He wasn't a brave man, and the thought of accosting three strange women in a public place would normally shrivel him down to the size of a small walnut. This, though, was different. He had no idea what was happening, he definitely didn't want to know, but he knew, with a kind of fatal clarity, that he was going to have to ask. He cleared his throat and said, "Excuse me."

They didn't seem to have heard him. "After he's killed the snake," the elegant woman said.

"Excuse me."

The old lady frowned. "Oh, it's a snake, is it? Must've got in a bit of a tangle."

"Definitely a snake," the elegant woman said. "Well, sort of a snake. Anyhow, after he's done that—"

"I'm talking to you." Maybe, but they weren't hearing him.

"Is that before or after he gets fired from–what's the name of the firm?" the girl was asking.

"Overthwart and Headlong, dear. You remember. Before, definitely," the old lady said authoritatively. "Then the snake." She paused. "I think."

Overthwart & Headlong, whose offices he'd just come from. Fired? Oh shit

"Damn. I'll have to unpick."

The old lady smiled sympathetically. "Some of these plait-stitch patterns can be a bit confusing," she said. "It was so much simpler in the old days, when everybody was either plain or purl."

There was a gentle but perceptible jolt. The train was moving. "Ooh," the girl said, "we're nearly there; we'd better get a move on. Where had we got to?"

"The snake," said the elegant woman, as she polished her glasses on her sleeve.

"What about the choice?" the old woman said.

"Oh hell." The young woman pulled a savage face. "Now I'm going to have to unpick three whole rows."

"Excuse me," Maurice said weakly.

"Are you sure the choice comes before the snake?" the elegant woman said. "I thought the choice came in between the bottle and healing the wounded king."

The what? He opened his mouth, trying to say Excuse me, but no sound emerged.

"She's right," the old woman said. "Stupid of me. I've got the pattern upside down."

The girl shot her a furious glare. "So it's the snake, then the bottle, then the choice and then the king and presumably the goblins after that. Or is it the choice and then the bottle?"

"EXCUSE ME." He hadn't intended to roar, but it was the only way he could get his mouth to work. He roared so loud they could probably hear him in the street above. The women took no notice.

"Check," the elegant woman said. She glanced at the window, which was still completely black. "Well," she went on, "we cut that pretty fine, but we got there in the end."

The girl was stuffing her needles and wool into her bag. "Talking of which," she said.

"Sorry, dear. Oh yes, of course." The old woman nodded eagerly. "The end. How will it end?"

"Badly," said the elegant woman.

The girl clicked her tongue. "Well, of course badly," she said impatiently. "But how exactly? We can't just say badly and leave it at that; they'll want details. Like, for instance, what's the cause of death?"

The old woman frowned. "Entropy?"

"His death." The girl sighed. "Precisely when and how does he—?"

With a strangled cry, Maurice jumped to his feet, grabbed at the elegant woman (who happened to be nearest) and felt his fingers close on the lapel of her jacket. On and through.

The sound they made was like those fireworks that scream as they shoot up into the air; appropriately enough, because that, as far as Maurice could tell in the circumstances, was what the three women did. It was as though they'd all been simultaneously sucked into the thin nozzle of an invisible, exceptionally powerful vacuum cleaner; they sort of compressed from three dimensions to two, into straight vertical lines, just before vanishing with a sudden bright blue flare and a distant roll of thunder. At which point, the train stopped, the doors slid open and three Japanese tourists and a bald, fat man in a raincoat got in. Through the window, Maurice could see a sign saying Piccadilly Circus. The automated voice said, "Mind the gap", the doors closed and the train gently moved forward.

Maurice's eyes were very wide. Piccadilly Circus was where he'd got on. He fumbled with the sleeve on his left arm and dragged his shirt cuff off his watch. He'd left the office at 7.45. It was now three minutes to eight—

Oh hell, he thought. Here we go again.

At exactly the same time as Maurice got off the train, in exactly the same place, but at ninety-one degrees to that time and place in the D axis, a man in his mid-thirties rolled onto his back, grunted and opened his eyes.

He lay quite still for a moment, looking up. Then he frowned.

"Hello?" he said.

There was no reply apart from a slight and unusual echo. The precise qualities of that echo meant more to him than it would to you or me, because the man had once been a physicist–a great one, a Nobel laureate. True, he couldn't remember anything he'd learned during his twelve years at the University of Leiden, not even his room number or where they keep the washing machines, but his brain was still as sharp as ever. Imagine a Porsche, mechanically perfect but its gas tank completely empty.

He was working, therefore, from first principles, rather like Archimedes or one of those guys. Also, he wasn't consciously trying to account for the slightly odd properties of the echo. Even so, his subconscious got onto the problem straight away, and, in the time it took the man to sit up and rub his eyes, it had come up with a viable hypothesis that happened to be perfectly correct. The echo sounded funny because he was inside a cylinder–a cylinder, moreover, that tapered dramatically somewhere out of sight overhead. Sort of a bottle shape.

Because of the way the mind works, he wasn't conscious of all the calculus and equations he'd just performed. Instead, he attributed the flash of insight to intuition, which he'd been brought up to mistrust. That's all the thanks his subconscious got for all that hard work. It's an unfair world.

I'm in a bottle, he thought.

Then he realised that that thought was the only one he'd got, like the very first stamp in a brand-new stamp album. His frown deepened. Once again, his subconscious raced. It realised that it occupied a brain equipped with vast memory-storage capacity, a very big stamp album indeed; therefore, wasn't it a bit odd that all that space had just one thought in it?

Well, now there were two, but that wasn't the point. Surely there ought to be, well, dozens. And, while he was at it, he couldn't help noticing the substantial quantity of intellectual plant and machinery cluttering the place up–logic and cognitive processes and arithmetic, and God only knows what that one over there was supposed to be for. Unless the inside of his head was just warehouse space, presumably they'd been put there for a reason. I must be somebody, he realised. With a thing, name, and a personality and a, what's that other thing, a history. And what, now I come to think of it, am I doing in a bottle?

If he really was in a bottle. He looked around. There was nothing to see, absolutely nothing at all. There was light, quite a fair amount of it. What was lacking was anything for the light to play with.

Now then. All from first principles, of course, but it didn't take him long to come up with a theory. I'm in a glass bottle, or just possibly a jar; and the bottle or jar's in—


That's where a frame of reference is so devilishly useful. A frame of reference lets you know instantly if being inside a glass bottle inside nothing at all is normal, the same old same old, just another day at the office; or whether it's odd, a bit strange, possibly even a cause for moderate concern. But, as far as he could tell, he had no frame of reference, not even a scrap of a corner of one. Awkward. And, since he was stuck in a bottle surrounded by nothing at all, it wasn't immediately obvious how he was supposed to go about changing that. In which case, presumably, all he could do was wait patiently in the hope that the frame of reference he must once have had would at some point return and start making sense of things. Well, of course it will. It'll come back when it's hungry. They always do.

At which point (from first principles) he realised he'd discovered the concept of time. For about two and a half seconds he felt rather excited about that, though he wasn't sure why. A small part of him was trying to tell him that finding out stuff about how the world works is a good thing and something to feel pleased with yourself about. Quite why, he couldn't say, but the instinct was surprisingly strong. Maybe that's what I'm for, he told himself; after all, I must be for something, or else why the hell bother having me in the first place? Assuming I exist, of course, but I'm pretty sure I do. Well, of course I exist. I'm thinking, aren't I? And if you think, you exist, surely. Stands to reason, that does.

He stood up and peered down at himself. He was, he noticed, a sort of drab pink colour, in striking contrast to everything else, which was no colour at all. When he patted the top of his head, he felt something soft and sort of woolly; it felt a bit like the thin black hair on his arms, legs and body, but longer. He tried to think of a reason for it–how being partially thatched could possibly make him a more efficient pink entity in a bottle–but maybe he was missing pertinent data, because nothing sprang immediately to mind. Also, there were hard, vaguely scutiform plates on the ends of his fingers and toes. Crazy.

Am I alone?

Now where, he wondered, had that thought come from? For one thing, it meant he'd invented mathematics, simply by postulating that there might be such a thing as more-thanone. But of course there was, because he had ten fingers and ten toes; therefore, plurality exists. Any damn fool could tell you that. In which case, given the possibility of multiple entities, there might be more like him, maybe as many as five, or ten even, out there somewhere. Out where? He peered, but all he could see was nothing, with more nothing just beyond it, set against an infinite backdrop of zilch.

Now here's a thought. I'm in a bottle, but I can't see it. I know it's there, because of the echo. Therefore, things can exist without me being able to see them. Therefore, even though I can't see other entities like myself, there may be some, somewhere. Whee!

Enough of the abstract theorising; time for some practical experimentation. He walked forward in a straight line (which, for the sake of convenience, he decided was probably the shortest distance between two given points). After three paces, he simultaneously banged his nose and stubbed his toe—

Ouch. Pain. That made him frown, because he wasn't sure he liked it. But of course, it must be an inbuilt warning mechanism, to keep you from damaging yourself by, for example, walking into one of those things that exist but can't be seen. Ingenious and effective, he decided; my compliments to the chef. Still, probably a good idea to reduce one's exposure to it as far as conveniently possible.


The echo again? No, not possible. It sounded all wrong for that. He turned round, and saw–his reflection? Good guess, but apparently not, because the entity he was looking at, though similar to him in many ways, was subtly different in others. Partially covered in white fabric, for one thing; also longer hair and two curious sort of bumps, or swellings, on the front.

The entity spoke. "It apologises," it said, "for any inconvenience."

That made no sense, but he was prepared to make allowances. "Do they hurt?" he asked.

"Excuse it?"

"The swellings on your front. Are you ill?"

The entity's face moved, producing an expression he intuitively suspected was meant to convey displeasure. "It's supposed to be like that."

"Really? Why?"

"Presumably you perceive it as female. Would you mind terribly much not staring? If it's female, it doesn't like it."

"Sorry." He turned away, then turned slowly back and deliberately focused a hand's span above the top of the entity's head. "Is that better?"

"Marginally," the entity replied, "though it's not easy having a conversation with someone not looking at it. But that's fine for now," the entity added quickly, as he started to turn away again. "It'll just have to get used to it."

Hang on, he thought. A million questions were bubbling away inside his head, but there was one he just had to ask. "Excuse me."


"Why do you talk about yourself in the third person?"

The entity's face showed an expression designed to convey perplexity. "Say what?"

"Well," he said, "there's three persons in speech, right? Apparently," he added, as it occurred to him to wonder how the hell he knew that. "There's the first, like I, and the second, you, and then for some reason there's three thirds. But you don't seem to be using the right one."

The entity looked at him for a moment, shook its head and said, "It wouldn't worry about that right now if it was you. There are…" the entity hesitated. "More pressing issues."

"Are there?"

"You bet."

"Wow. Such as?"

"Your identity," the entity replied. "Your current status. Talking of which, it would like to assure you that you're perfectly safe."

"Ah." It hadn't occurred to him that he might not be. "Well, that's good."

"And, more to the point," the entity went on, "while you're in there, so is everyone else."

"Excuse me?"

The entity looked mildly embarrassed. "It's been instructed to tell you that you're being held in temporary isolation, pending a review. In another time, place and context, your status here would be aptly conveyed by an annoying hourglass, or an even more annoying running horse. There is no cause for concern."

"Great," he said, trying to sound pleased. "So I'm just—"


He nodded. "And that's all right, is it? I mean, that's how it's supposed to be."

"Oh yes."

"Thanks, you've set my mind at rest. You see, I don't actually know—"

The entity didn't seem to want to look at him. "Your memories have been temporarily removed and placed in secure storage. It apologises for any—"

"So I've got some, then. Memories, I mean."


"Cool." He grinned. "So, when can I have them back?"


"Right. When is later?"

"Later is after now," the entity replied, "just before eventually. Meanwhile, you have nothing to worry about. Everything is as it should be."

He nodded again, this time more slowly. "You said I've been placed here, and my memories have been removed. Um, who by?"

The entity's face changed colour very slightly; a faint reddish tinge. "It."


"No, it."


The entity hesitated, as though looking for the right words. "Since you seem to have a flair for linguistics," it said, "try this. Not every passive has an equivalent active form."

He tried that one, but it wouldn't run. "Sorry, you've lost me."

"Just because something is done," the entity said slowly, "it doesn't necessarily follow that somebody's done it. Some things just…" The entity waved a hand vaguely. "That's how it is."

"It meaning you?"

"No. Yes. Sort of. Look," the entity snapped, "that's a really abstruse, complex question, and it's on a schedule. All you need to know right now is, you're safe, everything's fine, and it'll get back to you as soon as possible. Meanwhile—"

"It apologises for any inconvenience?"

"You got it. Oh, and one other thing." The entity was looking positively furtive.


"If you could just sign this form." A sheet of paper materialised in the air a few inches from his face. A pen hovered over it like a wingless dragonfly.

"Excuse me?"

"Sign, please. Just a formality."

He looked at the pen and the paper. They did seem oddly familiar, but he had no data. "I'm not sure I know how."

"Take the stick thing in your hand and rub its pointy end up and down on the flat thing until it makes a mark. Anywhere'll do."

He reached out and took the pen. Without thinking, he cradled it between his index and middle fingers, with his thumb pressed to the side. "Why?"

"Excuse it?"

"Why am I doing this?"

"Oh, it's just a disclaimer," it mumbled. "Sort of absolving it from all present and future liability. Legal stuff. You don't need to worry."

"There's marks on the flat thing already. Hold on," he added, as something about the marks caught his eye. Bizarrely enough, their shape and form seemed to convey some sort of meaning. "Can I look at them?"

"Wouldn't bother if it was you," the entity said quickly. "Just the usual blahdy-blah. Nothing important."

"If it isn't important, then why do you want me to—?"

"Just sign, OK?"

He was aware that he was causing the entity a certain degree of discomfort. Obviously he didn't want that, so he pressed the pen to the paper and did a sort of squiggle. Immediately, they both vanished. "Sorry," he said. "Did I do it wrong?"

"No, that's fine." The entity was smiling. "Well, that about covers everything, so it'll leave you in peace. So, um, enjoy your stay with it, and please feel free to make full use of all the facilities."

"Hey, thanks. What facilities?"

"Um." The entity shrugged. "Anyhow," it said. "Have a nice day now, you hear?"

"Yes," he replied eagerly, "I was meaning to ask you about that. I take it that when I hear something, it's because vibrations made by movements or similar events are conveyed to me in some kind of wave, and there's a specially sensitive membrane or something inside me somewhere that translates those vibrations into sensory input that I'm capable of interpreting. Is that right, or am I barking up the wrong tree entirely?"

The entity dipped its head. "Pretty much," it said. "That style of thing, anyhow. Be seeing you."

"Oh yes, sight," he said. "Is that where tiny particles of light—?" But the entity had vanished.


  • "Wacky humor bubbles through the polished narrative... Holt doesn't skimp on the flashes of brilliance."—SFX
  • "Uniquely twisted...cracking gags..." --- The Guardian (UK)
  • "Frantically wacky and willfully confusing...gratifyingly clever and very amusing." --- Mail on Sunday
  • "Blonde Bombshell is a clever, funny, tirelessly inventive, apocalyptic leg-hump of a book." --- Christopher Moore, New York Times bestselling author

On Sale
Dec 17, 2013
Hachette Audio

Tom Holt

About the Author

Tom Holt was born in London in 1961. At Oxford he studied bar billiards, ancient Greek agriculture and the care and feeding of small, temperamental Japanese motorcycle engines interests which led him, perhaps inevitably, to qualify as a solicitor and emigrate to Somerset, where he specialized in death and taxes for seven years before going straight in 1995. He lives in Chard, Somerset, with his wife and daughter.

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