The Garden of Unearthly Delights

The stand was clearing fast. Small boys, clad all in grey, with faces now to match, ran shrieking, this way, that and t’other. The chaps at the pavilion just looked on, aghast.

  Maxwell fled and the beasts bounded after him, all semblance of human mimicry gone. Snarling, a-growling, thirsty for his blood.

  Up the stand ran Maxwell, leaping from one row of seats to the next. A tiger sprang and Maxwell ducked, then hit it hard across the head. The tiger fell and Maxwell ran some more.

  Along the topmost row he ran, wildly swinging the bat around his head. The creatures swarmed after, ripping up the seats, cruel claws drawn to kill. Amongst them now, the bowler, trumpeting and mashing seats aside.

  At the end of the row Maxwell came to a shuddering halt. He had run out of places to run. He raised his bat and made a most menacing face. But his menace was lost on his pursuers. Creeping forward, heads down, wild eyes glittering, they stalked their cornered prey and prepared to move in for the kill.

  ‘Now, lads,’ said Maxwell. ‘Let’s not do anything we all might regret.

  The creatures growled, black lips drawn back to show those razor teeth, haunch muscles tense for the final spring.

  For the ripping and devouring.

  Maxwell held his breath. He had the terrible feeling that this time there really was no way out, this time he had pushed things that little bit too far. He hadn’t thought things through.

  He’d been a tad too hasty.

  This time was the last time. It was the end.

  Forward now they came, all low growls and terrible fangs. Closer and closer. Bestial and dreadful drool.

  Closer.

  And closer.

  Then—

  CRACK!

  It wasn’t Maxwell’s bat.

  It wasn’t Maxwell’s nerve, though it might well have been.

  It wasn’t anything to do with Maxwell at all, in fact.

  CRACK! Once again, it went and CRACK!

  Maxwell gawped. The animals froze.

  CRACK!

  The animals turned their heads.

  The elephant stood, looking down at his feet. Beneath him the wooden boards of the stand were going

  CRACK!

  ‘Aw shit!’ said the elephant, as beneath his mighty weight the boards gave way and with a CRACK! surpassing all CRACKs past, the stand collapsed. Down went the bowler, down went rows of seats and splintered wood. Down went the animals and down too came the roof.

  Maxwell found himself clinging to an upright roof support which now, having nothing left to support, became no longer upright and angled away from the falling stand, taking Maxwell with it.

  ‘Ooooooh!’ went Maxwell.

  The support arced down like a pole-vault pole, with Maxwell Ooooohing, as it fell. Much ground rushed up. And with it, the pavilion.

  Maxwell struck the roof of the veranda, passed through this and was cushioned from concussion by chaps in white below.

  He landed upon Archer and the younger brother of Lord Grade, staggered to his feet and called out for William.

  ‘I’m here,’ the lad replied. ‘Under the steps.’

  ‘Then come out, quick.’

  ‘Are you kidding or what?’

  ‘Come on, hurry.’

  William struggled out and Maxwell grabbed him by the wrist. ‘You do know how to run fast, don’t you?’

  William nodded.

  ‘Then just do what I do.’ And Maxwell did what he had done so many times before.

  In William’s company this time, he took to his heels and fled.

  21

  Maxwell ran and William ran.

  Away from the cricket ground they ran.

  At a fair old lick and a light-foot dance.

  Without so much as a backwards glance.

  And bells rang out from high stone towers,

  And folk poured forth from inner bowers.

  Men in gowns and lads in grey,

  Hurrying, scurrying, every way.

  There were cracks and groans and growls and roars,

  And fearsome fangs and cruel claws,

  And in the pavilion none was spared,

  From curling lip and white tooth bared.

  It was ‘orrible, as a lion’s den.

  The floor ran red with the blood of men.

  The beasts devoured all those in sight,

  ‘Cos all men look the same in white.

  And mangled limbs and shredded hearts,

  And ripped-out guts and private parts.

  And—

  ‘Hold on,’ cried Maxwell, raising a hand.

  ‘What is it?’ William skidded to a halt.

  ‘Poetry,’ said Maxwell. ‘Quite appalling poetry.’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything.’

  Maxwell cocked an ear, then shrugged. ‘Must have imagined it. Come on, this way.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Into the University buildings. There’s something I have to do.’

  ‘I hope it’s hide.’

  ‘That too. Come on.’

  They slipped into the shadow of an arch, passed through an open doorway, and found themselves in a long narrow passage.

  ‘I don’t suppose that by some happy chance you just happened to have had the floor plan for this establishment knocked into your head?’ Maxwell asked.

  ‘Funny you should say that.’

  ‘Then you have?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t. That really would be pushing credibility, wouldn’t it?’

  Maxwell clouted William in the ear. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s never wise to push credibility. I wonder what’s through here.’ And Maxwell pushed open a door.

  The room beyond was long and low and miserable and mean.

  A single tallow candle, guttering in a wall sconce, illuminated a mirror beneath and two down-at-heel leather pedestal chairs. These were bolted to a floor of pitted linoleum. Before them and below the mirror, stood a table. On this were a number of cutthroat razors and a pair of antique hair clippers.

  ‘Well,’ said Maxwell. ‘Fancy that.’

  ‘Who is there?’ Something moved in a far corner of the room. It was a very frail something. It rose upon creaking joints and tottered into the uncertain light. It was a tall something also, though stooped. It supported itself upon a lacquered cane.

  Maxwell stared at the apparition. It was a man. Of sorts. An ancient man, his bald head dappled with liver spots. A thousand wrinkled lines and crusted folds composed his face. A long white beard shivered as he spoke. ‘Have you come for a shave or a short back and sides? You’ll have to speak up, I’m a trifle deaf.’

  ‘Sir John?’ Maxwell took a step forward. The old man flinched at the sudden movement, swayed upon his cane as if a gust of wind might waft him from his feet.

  ‘Sir John, is it really you?’

  Maxwell stared at the trembling figure. It had been his sworn intention that if he ever met up with Sir John Rimmer again he would wreak a terrible vengeance.

  But seeing him, here, now.

  In this state.

  ‘Do you know him?’ William asked.

  ‘A little boy.’ The ancient stretched a shaky withered claw to tousle William’s hair. ‘I have some sweeties somewhere for little boys.’

  ‘No thanks,’ said William. ‘Sugar causes a build up of plaque, which can lead to tooth decay and gum disease. However, regular brushing will—’

  Maxwell clouted William once more in the ear.

  ‘Ouch,’ said William.

  ‘Don’t cuff the little boy. I expect he’s a good little boy. Are you a good little boy?’

  William nodded. ‘Let’s get,’ he whispered. ‘The old buffer is clearly suffering from advanced senile dementia and a chronic disorder of the central nervous system, characterized by impaired muscular coordination and tremor.’

  ‘That would be your diagnosis, would it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said William.

  Maxwell took him firmly by the clouted earhole and hoisted him
through the doorway. ‘Wait outside,’ he said, returning to the room and slamming the door behind him.

  ‘He’s a naughty little boy then, is he?’ The ancient nodded his withered old head.

  ‘Sir John,’ Maxwell peered into the rheumy eyes. ‘It is you, isn’t it? Sir John.’

  ‘Surgeon? No, I’m not a surgeon. I’m the barber. Short back and sides, was it? Or a shave? I’ll have to strop the razor, it’s terribly rusty.’

  ‘Sir John, it’s you.’ Maxwell reached out to shake the trembling shoulders, but didn’t for fear that the old man might fall apart. ‘How can you be here, after all this time? What happened to you? How did Waldeck—’

  ‘Waldeck? Waldeck?’ The ancient made an alarmed face and began to parry about with his cane. He sank with a thud and a cloud of dust into one of the leather chairs.

  ‘You remember him, don’t you? Do you remember me?’

  ‘You?’ The old man nodded. ‘Yes, I remember you.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Archer, isn’t it? Did you win the match? Did you beat those animals, did you?’

  ‘I’m not Archer. I’m Maxwell. Maxwell, Remember? Max Carrion, Imagineer.’

  ‘Mick Scallion, engineer? I didn’t call for an engineer.’

  Maxwell’s brain began to fog. He made a fist and then unmade it, thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. His right hand closed about the magic pouch.

  ‘Magic,’ said Maxwell. ‘You remember magic, your magic. You had powerful magic.’

  ‘Magic?’ The old man coughed. ‘No magic here. None comes through the grid. No magic here at all. Did I have magic? Can’t remember. Must have lost it if I did.’

  ‘You don’t remember anything? About me? About who you are?’

  ‘I’m the barber. Do you want a short back and sides, did you say?’

  Maxwell stared once more into the red-rimmed eyes. ‘He did this to you, didn’t he? He took away your memory, like he takes the memories from the kids. Sucks out the knowledge. He took everything from you. This University was yours, wasn’t it? The City of Sergio Rameer. The University of Sir John Rimmer. He took it all from you and twisted it about.’

  ‘The University?’ the old man’s eyelids fluttered. ‘Am I still in my University? So very long ago. I forget things. Hearing’s not too good. You’ll have to speak up and tell me how you want your hair cutting.’

  ‘I don’t want my hair cutting,’ shouted Maxwell. ‘I just want to get even. I will kill Waldeck and get you back your memory and your knowledge.’

  ‘Knowledge?’ The old man rocked to and fro on his chair. ‘It’s in the air, floating all around us. You have to know how to pluck it out.’ The old man chuckled hideously. ‘Tap it, that’s the secret. To tap it you have to tap it. Tap the head, just so. Or was it trim the head? Or shave the head? Something to do with heads. I’m the barber, you know.’

  Maxwell glanced about the terrible room. ‘I need a change of clothes. A disguise. They’ll be looking for the mystery cricketer. I need to dress up in something else.’

  ‘You should have an overall, if you’re an engineer.’

  ‘I’m not an engineer. I’m the Imagineer.’

  ‘Imagineer. Imagineer? You don’t look like an imagineer. Not dressed like that. You look like a cricketer. Did we win?’

  Maxwell threw up his hands.

  ‘Wardrobe,’ said the old man.

  ‘Wardrobe? Where?’

  ‘Over there in the corner. Did I say wardrobe? Why did I say wardrobe?’

  ‘Never mind.’ The wardrobe stood in a shadowy corner. Maxwell stalked over to it and flung wide the doors.

  Then he took a step back and simply stared.

  The light of the guttering candle fell upon a suit of clothes.

  And such a suit of clothes.

  A waistcoat of rich brocade, a cravat of dark material, a pair of corduroy trousers and a pair of riding boots.

  From a hook hung belts that holstered pistols, daggers and a samurai sword in a polished scabbard.

  From another hung a simply splendid coat of night-black leather.

  Maxwell set a whistle free. ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll,’ he said.

  The barber hobbled over to stand at Maxwell’s shoulder. ‘Was I keeping those for someone?’

  ‘You were keeping them for me.’

  Sounds of commotion came from the passage. William ducked into the room, closed the door quietly behind him and turned the key in the lock. ‘They’re coming this way,’ he said. ‘Horrid big things. They’re searching the rooms.’

  ‘Then we’d best be gone.’ Maxwell reached into the wardrobe and brought out the suit of clothes.

  William gave a whistle. ‘What a simply splendid coat,’ he said.

  ‘Is there a back door?’ Maxwell asked the barber.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Where is it then?’

  ‘You came in through it.’

  ‘Go on,’ said William. ‘Hit him. You know you want to.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You do too. I can see it in your eyes.’

  ‘I don’t! Where is the front door, Sir John?’

  ‘The front door? Oh I see, the front door. Yes.’ Sir John thought about this. ‘Go out the way you came in, along the passage, right at the end, into the foyer, pass the gift shop and you’re there.’

  ‘You needn’t hit him hard,’ said William. ‘Just a little tap would do.’

  Bang. Bang. Bang. Went someone, bang-bang-banging on the back door.

  ‘There has to be another way out.’ Maxwell squinted all around the shadowed room in search of one.

  Crash. Crash. Crash and, ‘Open up in there.’

  ‘Secret passage,’ said Sir John.

  ‘What?’ said Maxwell.

  ‘Secret passage.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘If I told you that, it wouldn’t be a secret.’ Sir John tittered.

  Crash!

  William stared down at the now unconscious barber. ‘I think you’ve killed him,’ he said.

  Maxwell examined his right fist. ‘It was only a little tap. And he was asking for it, after all.’

  Crash! at the door, and smash! also.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘Where?’ asked William.

  ‘Here,’ said Maxwell.

  Big crash! at the door now. Then the door bursting from its hinges.

  Two awful-looking beings stormed into the room. Great distorted heads with crests of quill. Light-bulb eyes and snapping jaws. Massive shoulders heaving out from leather harnessing. Mighty fists that swung from lengthy muscled arms.

  They raged about, ripping the chairs from the floor, smashing the mirror, overturning the table. They dragged down the wardrobe and kicked it to pieces. When finally satisfied that the room lacked for any other entrance, especially a hidden door that led to a secret passage, they sniffed at the unconscious barber, swore great oaths and shambled from the room.

  When all was once more silent, William said, ‘I didn’t like the look of them at all.’

  ‘Two of Count Waldeck’s personal body guards.’

  ‘Who’s Count Waldeck?’

  ‘The ruler of the city, the University.’

  ‘I thought that was Sergio Rameer.’

  ‘No, Sergio Rameer is really Sir John Rimmer, the barber I just knocked out.’

  ‘What? But if—’

  ‘I’ll explain it all as we go along,’ said Maxwell. ‘Give me a hand with this simply splendid coat.’

  ‘Just one more question before we go,’ said William. ‘Where exactly are we?’

  ‘Hiding inside the magic pouch in the corner of the room,’ said Maxwell. ‘I thought that would have been bloody obvious.’

  Maxwell marched along the passage in full Max Carrion regalia. The simply splendid leather coat billowed out behind him. The riding boots click-clacked on the marble floor, the armoury chinked and rattled.

  Maxwell looked the business.


  And he was the business.

  It was heading for that showdown time and Maxwell knew it. That time of epic confrontation, when loose ends are deftly tied, villains get their just deserts and the hero bravely triumphs.

  As Maxwell marched, dark thoughts stirred in his head. The great imagineering plan he’d planned a while before now lay all in broken wreckage. Much of it relied upon the element of surprise, the fact that the Sultan of Rameer wouldn’t know who Maxwell really was or what he was really after.

  However, all was far from lost and as Maxwell marched, certain new thoughts came to him. One by one. But all at once.

  And by the time Maxwell had reached the end of the corridor it was all sorted out in his head. Which was just the way it should be.

  ‘Stop!’ ordered Maxwell, jerking to a halt.

  ‘What?’ said William, tripping over Maxwell’s heels.

  ‘I have a plan.’ Maxwell helped the lad to his feet. ‘I will explain it to you in outline and I want you to do exactly what I tell you to do, without question. Do you understand?’

  William made a doubtful grubby face. ‘Are you certain you wouldn’t welcome the occasional question, if it was pertinent to the success of the plan and beautifully articulated?’

  ‘Absolutely certain.’

  ‘Pity,’ said William, ‘as much of my characterization apparently depends on me spilling out complicated sentences with lots of long words in them. To great comic effect, I might add.’

  ‘I’ve never found them particularly comic myself,’ said Maxwell. ‘Most appear to be direct cribs from the dictionary. It’s a laugh for a bit. But it soon wears thin.’

  ‘Oh right,’ said William. ‘Perhaps I should “take to my heels and flee” more often. Or say “Rock ‘n’ Roll”, or make reference to my “substantial boots”.’

  ‘That’s hardly fair,’ said Maxwell. ‘There’s a lot more to being the hero than a few running gags.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I forgot the punching people. If stuck for a punch line, punch someone’s lights out. Very original.’

  Maxwell looked hard at William.

  And William looked hard at Maxwell.

  ‘Do you get the feeling’, said William, ‘that we shouldn’t have said any of that?’

  ‘Let’s just pretend we didn’t, and pass on.’