Read Online My Hero by Tom Holt - Free Book Online

Players that if Hamlet had been there, instead of having been called away to a vitally important business meeting, he’d have been urging them to hold, as it were, a mirror up to nature . . .)
    He stopped in his tracks. Did he really have to go back? Why didn’t he just stay here, settle down, enjoy himself for once? Get a job in a building society and become the Relatively Cheerful Dane?
    A stray atom of pollen drifted into his nose, and he sneezed.
    It’s a sad fact of life that good noses are hard to come by; and in spare-part surgery, more than anything else, you get what you pay for. Norman Frankenbotham, struggling to make do on a pension, had had to settle for a job lot of nasal gear that had seen better days, and plenty of them. He’d done his best with polyurethane varnish and suture, and the result was fine for ordinary everyday breathing. Sneezes, however, are another matter; and if he’d had the chance for a quiet chat with his creation, Norman would have impressed upon him the vital importance of avoiding dust, pollen and similar irritants if he didn’t want to end up with a face like something dreamed up by Stephen King after a late night snack of extra mature Cheddar.
    Hamlet froze; then, having looked round to make sure nobody was watching, he stooped quickly, feeling a few coils of sellotape giving way as he did so, retrieved the nose and sidled into a shop doorway, where he could examine the damage in the glass.
    â€˜Oh budder !’ he exclaimed. ‘By doze!’
    Having replaced the bag, he stepped back into the street, breathing through his mouth and walking very
carefully. He had reached a decision. He was going home, whatever it took. The spirit may have been willing, but the flesh was just a smidge too weak for his liking.
    Â 
    â€˜Forget it,’ Regalian said. ‘There is absolutely no way . . .’
    â€˜Please.’
    Regalian drew a deep breath, intending to let Jane know, with map references, where she could put her suggestion. He hesitated.
    â€˜Did you say,’ he whispered, ‘cowboys?’
    â€˜That’s right.’
    â€˜Like, um, John Wayne and, er, Gary Cooper and, you know, um, thing?’
    â€˜Thing?’
    â€˜Audrey Murphy.’
    â€˜It’s Audie, not Audrey. Yes, just like them. Why?’
    â€˜Oh, nothing.’
    Like a fisherman detecting the faintest twitch on the line, Jane suddenly became alert. ‘There’s something, isn’t there?’ she asked. ‘You like the idea, don’t you?’
    â€˜It’s the most stupid suggestion I’ve ever heard in all my—’
    â€˜Clint Eastwood.’
    â€˜Of all the hare-brained crazy schemes I’ve ever . . .’
    Jane smiled into the telephone. ‘Admit it,’ she said, ‘you’re interested. You’re a secret Western buff, right?’
    â€˜Absolutely not. We can’t get films over here. The inter-dimensional interface buggers up reception, you just get snowstorms.’
    â€˜What is it, then? Books?’
    â€˜I have better things to do with my time. For example, being sick, or falling out of trees, or catching diphtheria . . .’
    Jane’s grin widened. ‘I know!’ she said. ‘It’s the music, isn’t it? You’re a country and western fan.’

    â€˜No!’ There was a pause. ‘Not a fan , God forbid. Never in a million years.’
    â€˜But?’
    â€˜Occasionally,’ Regalian said defensively, ‘we do get the odd country song on the jukebox in the pub here. Once in a blue—’
    â€˜You sing along, don’t you?’
    â€˜I do not.’ Another pause. ‘I may hum, sometimes, but—’
    â€˜There you are, then. Go on, be honest. You’re dying for an excuse to wear your cowboy boots.’
    â€˜I do not possess a pair of—’
    â€˜ And your ten-gallon hat. And your buckskin shirt.’
    â€˜Nor do I possess a