Archer's Goon

  “I’ve been thinking,” said Howard, “about how I would feel if I were Torquil. And I’d be a bit stuck. If he gets you the sack, then he can’t threaten you, and you won’t come under him anymore. I think he’ll just have to keep on the way he is doing—unless he gets angry, of course.”

  “Since I know the kind of person Torquil is,” said Catriona, “it’s his getting angry I’m afraid of.”

  On Wednesday Hathaway’s men began noisily filling up the road. But before they had got very far, some of them went back to the beginning and began drilling it up again. All the people Howard went to borrow food from that evening complained about it bitterly. Howard was getting good at borrowing food by then. Since Hind’s gang had given up, he could go out quite freely. But the Goon did not believe Hind’s gang had given up. He insisted on taking Howard and Awful to school every morning and met them in the afternoon when they came out.

  On Wednesday, also, Dillian took a hand again. When the Goon met Howard that afternoon, he said, “Police searched your house today. Took away your dad’s papers.”

  That must mean, Howard thought, that Dillian had still not found out how the words were being used. That was quite a relief. “I suppose she was making sure Dad hadn’t written anything for Archer or anyone,” he said.

  “Could have wanted words to compare,” said the Goon.

  “Was Dad very angry?” Awful asked hopefully.

  The Goon considered. “No. Laughed. Chatted.”

  That told them both that Quentin was still as obstinate as ever. They sighed. Home was thoroughly uncomfortable by then. The house was more like a campsite than anything else, where everyone had his or her own peculiar arrangements for keeping warm or keeping out Torquil’s music and Hathaway’s noise. The Goon slept on the floor of Howard’s room with a pillow tied around his head with string. Catriona had borrowed some jeweled earplugs from a friend. When she had them in, she went around with a deaf, happy smile, and people had to nudge her when they wanted to talk to her. Awful and Howard both slept under their mattresses instead of on top of them. Fifi lived in a kind of tent made of blankets in the middle of her attic, and during the day she crammed a pair of leg warmers on her head, over her hat, to keep out the noise.

  “Never mind,” said Quentin. “Think how cheaply we’re living.” When Howard asked him about the police, he laughed. “Poor fellows!” he said. “They didn’t know why they were there! We got quite friendly over it. I even asked them to arrest the Goon—he was washing my shirts at the time—but they didn’t seem to think they could. They said he didn’t have a record, which I must say surprised me.”

  The Goon looked smug. “Never got caught.” His eyes slid hopefully to see if Fifi admired him for this. Fifi did not notice.

  “But what did they take?” asked Howard.

  “Only my old typescripts,” Quentin said airily. “Nothing I need. I was thinking of burning them in the cooking fire tonight anyway.” There was a general groan. They were getting seriously short of things to burn in the fire. They had burned the broken kitchen chair that morning. “Don’t worry,” said Quentin. “There’s still the garden fence. We can use that tomorrow and burn Howard’s violin case tonight.”

  The Goon uttered a sound that could have been a howl of impatience. He arose and strode to the hall cupboard, where he fought his way past the muffled drums and the loudly playing bundles of radio and clarinet, beyond the pile of Wellington boots, to the very back. There he discovered a door to a cellar that no one had known was there and disappeared down into it. Shortly he emerged with armfuls of damp timber which he dropped in a heap in the hall. When he had done that, he threw the noisy things down into the cellar and shut the door on them.

  “Throw the telly, too?” he asked Quentin hopefully.

  “No. That remains as my memorial,” said Quentin. “You, my lad, are becoming far too much at home here. It’s occurred to me to wonder if Archer really needs you.”

  “The Goon is a tower of strength,” said Catriona. At this the Goon’s eyes slid hopefully to Fifi, but Fifi was looking at Quentin.

  “So he is,” Quentin agreed. “And a support to us all in our affliction, which is not at all what Archer seems to have intended.”

  The trouble was, as Howard said to Awful, the Goon was a tower of affliction, too. He was becoming seriously mournful over Fifi. And Fifi had now got to the point where she took the Goon for granted and never really noticed him at all. She stepped across his legs without looking, the way you do with a piece of furniture. There were times when the Goon filled the house with the hugeness of his dejection. It got Awful and Howard down, but Fifi never noticed that either. That day the Goon dismally drew a large heart in purple crayon on the kitchen table and sat throwing his knife at it, over and over again. The heart was shortly covered with dents, but it made no impression on Fifi’s heart in any way.

  “Don’t do that! It’s dangerous!” she said the few times she noticed.

  The Goon sighed. The hugeness of his sighs was phenomenal.

  By Thursday Hathaway’s men had reduced Upper Park Street to a patchwork of holes and new surface. Then they marked it out into new squares and commenced drilling all over again.

  “Don’t complain,” Quentin said to Catriona. “It’s giving those men valuable practice. I’ve always wondered where road menders trained.”

  Howard, by this time, had had enough. The constant trials at home made it hard to concentrate at school. When he started to draw a spaceship, he found he kept breaking off to think angry thoughts about Hathaway and Shine and Archer—not to speak of Dillian and Torquil. “Do you think it would be an idea to go see Hathaway?” he asked the Goon on the way home from school.

  “Don’t know how to find Hathaway,” the Goon said gloomily.

  “How about Shine then?” said Howard.

  “Don’t go near Shine,” said the Goon. “Dangerous.”

  “But I think someone ought to speak to Hathaway,” Howard said. “He’s the one who was getting Dad’s words, after all.”

  The Goon gave one of his sighs. “Did no good seeing Archer.”

  They turned into Upper Park Street, where Hathaway’s men were still hard at work, to find that Torquil had managed to send in a troop of bagpipers. They were skirling away, marching in single file, with their kilts swinging smartly as they picked their way around the edges of the various holes and in and out of red cones and strips of plastic. And though it had not been possible for any cars to get in or out of the street for three days now, a traffic warden was walking slowly up and down. Dillian must have sent her, Howard thought, to the skirling of “Loch Lomond”; that must have meant that taking Dad’s old typescripts had not been any help.

  As Howard turned to follow Awful and the Goon to the back door, he saw a car actually turn into the road. He stood and watched, expecting the driver to back out again as he realized his mistake. It was a big silver-colored Rolls-Royce. At the sight of it the traffic warden unhooked a walkie-talkie and began speaking into it urgently. Alerted by that, Howard waited. Instead of backing out, the Rolls burst through a line of fluttering red plastic, knocked over two red cones, and came on down the road. It surged around the side of the first hole and then swung around and surged around the next, just missing the pipers, who were coming around the same hole in the opposite direction.

  “What is it?” Awful called.

  Howard said, “I think it has to be Archer.” In fact, he was hoping it would prove to be Shine or Venturus. It could hardly be Erskine, he supposed, because Erskine was more likely to be driving a sewage tanker. The Rolls raced alongside the ditch in the middle of the road and slithered across the new tar outside number 10 to a gentle stop. Howard saw it was Archer. The Goon uttered a howl at the sight, of either rage or despair, and dashed on up the passage to the garden. Archer swung himself briskly out of the beautiful car, looking like a mechanic, but not quite, and stood gazing with his eyebrows up, amused, at the dug-up road, the traffic war
den, and the pipers.

  “I see my family has been busy,” he said to Howard. “Can I come in? I’ve got something for your father.”

  “If you like,” Howard said. “It isn’t very comfortable by now.”

  Archer grinned his wry grin. “I know. One moment.” He leaned into the car and dragged out a gleaming brand-new red typewriter. “Lead the way,” he said. When Howard, followed by Archer carrying the typewriter, came into the kitchen, he could see Awful had already told them Archer was coming. Quentin was sitting at the table, wearing four sweaters, two scarves, Catriona’s old raincoat, and a woolly hat, most of which Howard knew he had put on just that minute. He was pretending to be very busy playing ticktacktoe with Awful on the back of an old envelope. Fifi, with her leg warmers bobbing like a gnome hat above her rather too pink face, was arranging the last of Miss Potter’s cookies on a plate. Outside in the garden there were clouds of smoke where the Goon lurked with his broken heart. Catriona was not back yet. Howard was glad. Bagpipes always drove her nearly mad.

  “Mr. Sykes,” said Archer.

  “We can’t offer you a cup of tea, you know,” Quentin said without looking up.

  Archer laughed and put the typewriter down on the table. The electric light came on overhead. Fifi gave a cry of delight and rushed to the stove. The gas was on, too. “Tea or coffee?” she said.

  “Coffee, please,” said Archer. He looked sideways at Fifi, and his face grew rather pink, too. Awful watched with interest.

  “Very clever,” growled Quentin. “What do you want?”

  “To give you a new typewriter,” said Archer. “Since you sent Hathaway your old one, you obviously need another.”

  Quentin gave a sidelong look at the typewriter, even more sideways than the look Archer was having at Fifi. “How is it bugged?” he said.

  “It isn’t,” Archer said, honest as the day and rather hurt at the idea. But Quentin caught his eye and stared at him. The pink of Archer’s face grew to red. “To be quite honest,” he said irritably, “I’ve done to it what I think was done to your old one. That’s all. I wish you hadn’t given the old one to Hathaway. Why did you?”

  “So that he could do his own words, of course,” said Quentin. “I presume he has the wit to file through the chain? You must have heard me say that at the time. You should be grateful. Now you know who was getting the words.”

  Archer frowned. “Yes—if Hathaway was telling the truth. Hathaway’s so hard to get hold of, that’s the trouble. Finding him and stopping him are going to be more difficult than I realized. But once you’ve done me some more words, I shall have the upper hand at least.”

  Quentin turned away. “Awful,” he said, “you put two crosses in while I wasn’t looking.”

  “Only little ones,” said Awful.

  “Are you still refusing to do me the words?” Archer said.

  “Have a cookie,” Fifi interrupted hurriedly. “The coffee won’t be long.”

  Archer gave up for a moment and took a cookie. So did Howard. Apart from the distant skirling of “Scotland the Brave,” that was the only sound until Fifi put mugs of coffee on the table.

  “Torquil’s stopped the telly!” Awful said, realizing.

  “He wants to hear what Archer’s saying,” said Howard.

  Archer shrugged. He was looking at Fifi again. “Let him hear,” he said. It was clear he had a low opinion of Torquil.

  Awful smiled her most fiendish smile. “But Archer’s not saying anything!” she said innocently. “He’s boring. He’s gawking at Fifi and falling in love. Boring, boring, boring—” Howard tried to kick Awful’s leg and missed. “Well, it is boring!” said Awful.

  By this time it was hard to tell whether Archer’s face or Fifi’s was the redder. “Awful,” Fifi said. “One more word from you and I’ll—I’ll set the Goon on you!”

  There was a confused silence. Quentin picked up his coffee and pretended to notice Archer again. “Oh. Haven’t you gone yet?”

  Archer was still very red. He looked as if he wished he had gone. “Mr. Sykes,” he said, “write me two thousand words on this typewriter, and I’ll pay you a million pounds for them.”

  Quentin stared at him. It was not a pleasant look. “I wondered when you’d get around to that,” he said. “Took you awhile, didn’t it? Funny the way all you millionaires are really mean at heart.”

  “But I—” Archer was truly surprised and did not seem to know what to say. “But I didn’t think you’d want money! The offer was just to convince you that I’m in earnest.”

  Quentin folded his arms on his paunch, in the way Howard was learning to dread. He went on staring at Archer. “Do you know,” he said, “I’d rather see Awful rule the world than you? You just haven’t a clue, have you? I know you’re in earnest. So am I. Go away and stop bothering me!”

  Archer looked at Awful. Red flooded his face again. Somehow he controlled his anger enough to say, probably to Howard, “I don’t know how else to persuade him. You can have your electricity back. I’ll unstop your bank accounts, too. I’ll leave the typewriter in case he changes his mind.” Muttering helplessly what sounded like “That’s all I can think of,” Archer turned to leave. Fifi bowed over her coffee, looking miserable. Then, as if this were another thing he did not have much clue about, Archer turned awkwardly back. “Er, Fifi,” he said. “Would you like to come out and—er—have a drink or something? I’ve got my car outside.”

  “Oh, yes, please!” Fifi knocked her coffee over in her rush to go with Archer. The door slammed, and they were gone.

  Howard and Awful were still mopping up coffee when the Goon loomed in the doorway. “Archer took Fifi off,” he said miserably.

  “Yes, but he left the gas on,” said Howard.

  “I’ll get him some coffee,” Awful offered. “I won’t put anything in but coffee.”

  In spite of this generosity from Awful, the Goon slumped inconsolably in his usual chair and sat staring at the legs he was filling the floor with. From time to time he said, “Archer gets everything.”

  Quentin sat at the table, staring at the dented purple heart on it, almost as inconsolable. “I think we shall have to leave town,” he said. “Probably by the town drain since everyone but Erskine seems bound to try and stop us.”

  They both were still sitting when Catriona came in, white and distraught and covering her ears against the skirling of “Amazing Grace.” That seemed to be Torquil’s favorite tune. “Howard, please! Find my earplugs!”

  Awful followed Howard as he went to look for the earplugs, wanting to know what they could do about the poor Goon. “I don’t know!” Howard said crossly. “I’m not a marriage bureau. Look, Awful, how about us trying to find Hathaway?”

  “Where?” said Awful.

  “Somewhere old-fashioned and hard to find, by the sound of it,” Howard said.

  “You mean, somewhere like those twisty lanes by the cathedral?” Awful asked.

  “Let’s go and look everywhere old we can think of,” said Howard. “I’ll just get Mum’s earplugs.”

  Chapter Nine

  Nobody really noticed Howard and Awful leave. The other three were too sunk in their separate miseries. The traffic warden had left. The pipers were picking their way around the largest hole and did not see them either. Awful and Howard threaded their way down the street, among the cones, the lanterns, the tarry heaps, and the strips of plastic, until they were level with the red and white striped tent. Hathaway’s men were just packing up for the night.

  “Let’s ask them,” Awful suggested.

  So Howard jumped a tarry ditch to get near. “Excuse me,” he said politely. “Can you tell us where Hathaway lives?”

  They looked around at him blankly. “Who’s Hathaway?” said one.

  “He’s the one who told you to dig up this road,” Howard explained.

  The men looked at one another and shook their heads. “Don’t think so,” said another of them. “We get our orders from the highway
office.”

  “Mind you, I think they’ve gone around the twist this time,” said a third. “But none of them’s called Hathaway.”

  “Name rings a bell, though,” said a fourth man. He thought. “Now where have I heard that name?” Howard waited patiently. He had got used to doing that with the Goon. But the man shook his head in the end. “No. Won’t come. Tell you what, though,” he offered. “I’ll keep thinking. It’ll come back. I’ll let you know when I remember. See you going by all the time.”

  “Thanks,” Howard said, and jumped back across the ditch to Awful.

  “Let’s look anyway,” said Awful.

  They cut through Zed Alley and across by the Poly, where the diggers, too, were just packing up for the night. But here, unlike Upper Park Street, the work seemed to be getting somewhere. There was now the skeleton of the new building, outlined in steel girders.

  “That’s because Hathaway isn’t running it,” said Awful.

  Beyond that they took the shortcut through the museum yard and under the walls of the cathedral, which led them to the steep plunge down Chorister Lane. Halfway down the lane Awful said doubtfully, “It looks a bit modern here to me.” Howard felt she was right. He had been thinking of the lane as old and gray. True, there were the modern shops called Kiddicloes and Boddikare, but they had always seemed chaste and tasteful to match the antiquated houses around. But it was evening, and the lights were coming on. Kiddicloes and Boddikare both had huge blue and green signs that flashed on and off. Another lighted up as Howard and Awful passed it. “PALM BEACH,” it said, in white and red. It seemed to be a club of some kind. “I didn’t know they had those here,” Awful said.

  “They have them down by the disco in Bishop’s Lane,” Howard pointed out.

  Another sign lit up as they passed. This one said “THE EVIL WEEVIL” in green. Before they reached the posts at the bottom of Chorister Lane, there were six more, flashing on and off, and when they came down into the tangle of narrow streets at the bottom, the whole place seemed alive with colored signs, spinning, crawling, hopping, all colors that light could be. Music was coming from many of the upstairs windows. Howard had not realized the town had such a night life. There were so many lights that the evening sky looked dark midnight blue.