Archer's Goon

  Ginger nodded, knowing Howard could run fast. “I might as well take them to my house. Twenty-six Spode Close. New Estate. OK?”

  “OK,” said Howard. And since the sound of heavy engines was now rather near, he set off running at once.

  He was still perfectly fresh. The only thing that annoyed him was the splart of his wet boot every time he trod on it. Splart, splart, splart, it went because he was sprinting hard so that the people in the vans would see him first, before they got around the shed and saw Ginger and the others. And see him they did. Howard heard a hooter blaring and caught a sideways glimpse of the three huge yellow shapes swinging around to follow him before he flung himself into hiding behind the next shed.

  He made off again before the vans had come into sight. It was almost fun. The sheds were spaced over a lot of ground, with tall weeds and derelict machines in between. Howard crouched behind a great rusty machine and looked back, beyond the three yellow vehicles lurching around and around the shed he had just been at, to the place where he had left Ginger. There was no one there. Ginger must have made it safely with Dad and Awful to the sheds near the road. Howard felt light of heart and set off to lead the rubbish vans a dance. Splart-thump, splart-thump, he went, not too fast, across the bushy space to the next shed, bending down as if he thought he was keeping hidden. Behind him the blare of hooters and the roaring of engines told him they had seen him and were coming after.

  Howard laughed as he went off his very fastest, splart, splart, splart, intending to hide behind the next shed while they searched that one. But they did not stop to search it. They came on and spread out, grumbling in a line, to cover as much ground as possible. Howard was forced to go on running, never quite out of sight, through weeds, around rusty machines, and alongside old sheds. Help! he thought. I forgot Erskine’s not stupid! And he splart-splarted for dear life now, right through the old industrial estate, with the three vans grinding close behind.

  He burst out through a clump of tall weeds to find nothing but a bricky field ahead, with a road and distant houses beyond that. With nothing to do but keep on running, Howard ran, splart-thump, out across the field. Behind him he could tell by the violent roaring that the tanker at least had stuck in the weeds. But the two rubbish vans were thumping their way through and lurching out into the field after him. Howard knew he would be caught soon unless there was a miracle.

  “Hathaway, send me a bus!” he panted as he ran. “Hathaway, send a bus!” It was a stupid waste of breath, but it had seemed to work when Awful said it.

  And there, to Howard’s amazement, was the long red shape of a bus, coming from beyond one distant row of houses and making its way toward the lonely bus stop at the edge of the field. Howard set his teeth and pelted, splart, splart, splart, toward the bus stop. The people in the rubbish vans, seeing what he was doing, sounded their hooters again and put on speed. Luckily, because of all the bricks in the field, they were not able to drive flat-out. But Howard could tell from the clattering and rattling behind him that they were coming as fast as they dared. By this time Howard was gasping like Quentin. His chest hurt, and his eyes blurred; but he kept on running, feeling in his pockets for a bus fare he did not think was there.

  “Archer!” he gasped. “Money! Quick!”

  His fingers closed on a piece of paper that felt like a pound note. He dragged it out as he ran, and it was a pound note. Another miracle. The bus, meanwhile, drew to a stately halt at the bus stop and stood there. Howard waved the pound note at it feebly, almost too breathless to lift his arm. And the driver, instead of driving away, opened the bus doors to show he had seen. By this time the rubbish vans were only yards behind. One veered off sideways to cut Howard off from the bus. But it veered too sharply, or it must have hit a brick. It spun around sideways and stopped. Men in yellow jumped off the back and ran to catch Howard, but Howard had just time for a last desperate splart, splart to the bus door. He flung himself up the steps and flung the pound note to the driver. The driver shut the doors and drove off, rattling change down for Howard as he drove.

  Howard flopped into a seat, wrestling for every breath he took, and sat with his head turned backward to watch the rubbish van that was still moving lurch up onto the road to follow the bus. The men were running back to the one that had stopped, and it was turning to follow the first van. Behind that the sewage tanker was lumbering across the field to join in the chase, too. But here the bus went in among the houses, and Howard lost sight of them all.

  The bus driver must have wanted his lunch. He roared through the outskirts of the town so fast that Howard began to hope he had escaped. But it was Saturday. As they got farther into town, there were lines at the bus stops and traffic in the roads. The bus stopped for each line, and in between it went much more slowly. At the fifth stop Howard saw the rubbish vans in the distance behind. At the sixth stop they were nearer. And by the seventh stop, not so far from the Town Hall, they were nearer still. Howard could see now why they were coming so fast. The two vans were driving side by side, nearly filling the road, with the tanker racing along behind. The traffic going the other way was in chaos. Cars were having to go on the sidewalks to get out of their way.

  Well, Howard thought, there have been two miracles now. It’s worth a try. “Dillian!” he said. “Dillian, send the police to stop those rubbish vans. Please!”

  A lady who had just sat down beside Howard stared at this boy talking to himself, but Howard barely noticed. He was too busy craning back to watch the big yellow vans gaining on the bus. They passed the Town Hall, and nothing happened. Beyond, in High Street, there was full Saturday traffic, and the bus crawled. I’d better get off and run! Howard thought. But the bus doors were shut because the next stop was around the corner in Corn Street. The rubbish vans were plowing through the traffic like a solid yellow wall, and they were now only fifty yards away.

  Then, to Howard’s huge relief, he heard the nee-nawing of sirens. Low blue lights flashed past the bus windows. Howard was not the only person who stood up to watch a line of police cars go howling down on the rubbish vans. “I should think so, too!” someone said. “I don’t know what those drivers think they’re doing!” The bus started to move fast again as the person spoke. It was swinging around the corner as the police cars drew up across the road in front of the great yellow vans. One van had trouble stopping. Howard glimpsed it mounting the sidewalk. The door of its cab came open, on the side away from the police cars. Just as the bus went right around the corner, Howard saw a huge long-armed shape with a tiny head swing itself out of the cab and leap down on the sidewalk.

  Only one person Howard knew was that shape. The moment the bus stopped in Corn Street, Howard dived for the door. He was out and running down the nearest side road before he had time to think. But fast as he was, his eye caught a sight of a vast, small-headed figure whirling around the corner into Corn Street. And the chances were that Erskine had also seen him. He was awfully close.

  Howard tore down the small winding street. His boot had dried a bit on the bus, so that it now went spuff, spuff, spuff; but he was tired, and his legs ached. He knew he was not going nearly fast enough to get away. On the other hand, he was running right into Shine Town, with the disco quite near and the cathedral towering above. He forced himself on around the corner, spuff-thump, spuff-thump, and thought that, yes, well, it was worth another try. The first three miracles had probably happened quite naturally, but Howard could not think of anything else to do.

  “Shine!” he panted out. “Torquil! Stop Erskine for me! Hold him up somehow at least!”

  He ran around another corner, uphill into Palace Lane, going slowly now, spuff-thump, spuff-thump, and aching all over. The thing that had said “MITER CLUB, GAMBLING” that night was indeed the bishop’s palace, he saw. That must have been Shine’s idea of a—

  A terrific noise broke out behind him. Howard jumped and ran looking over his shoulder. But whatever was happening was around the corner, out of sight. S
ome of it sounded like a brass band, some of it seemed to be disco music, and some again was plain shouting and yelling. People ran downhill past Howard, either to join in or to see what was going on. The noise got louder still. Now Howard distinctly heard several sharp cracking bangs. Gunshots? Oh, no! Howard thought. Fireworks. But when the next bang came, he knew it was a gun.

  “Dillian!” he gasped, pounding uphill. “Police! Shine’s overdone it!”

  Sure enough, almost at once, the noise was increased by the nee-nawing of police cars. And Erskine had still not come around the corner into Palace Lane. There was no one in the lane except Howard by now.

  That proves it! Howard thought. It really does! And he tried not to think of Erskine and particularly not to think of Erskine as the Goon. He went on at a reasonable jog trot, spuff-thump, spuff-thump, past the cathedral and into the park. And he thought as he jogged: The one he had to find was Venturus. The only possible thing to do was to find Venturus; he was the one responsible for all this. But he had no idea how you found someone who lived in the future. Apart from a few inklings, that was. Come to think of it, he had a whole cluster of inklings: If even Shine joined in to help him against Erskine, then—But for some reason, he did not want to think about that. He found himself running home instead.

  Hathaway’s men had done a marvelous job in Upper Park Street. It was now smooth and black and level, with not a cone or a drill in sight. There were one or two places where the painted word “ARCHER” still stared at him from a wall; but people had been cleaning that off, and there was hardly any other sign of the trouble of the past two weeks. Howard spuffed swiftly along and dived into the passage of number 10. He burst open the kitchen door.

  Catriona sprang up from the Goon’s usual chair. She still looked ill. “Howard! What’s the matter? Where’s Awful?”

  “Where’s the car?” panted Howard.

  “By the Poly,” said Catriona. “Why?”

  “Blast!” said Howard. “We’ll have to hope he’s followed me through the park if Shine didn’t get him. Come on, quick! You have to get out of here before Erskine gets here!”

  “Erskine?” said Catriona. But she was efficiently seizing her coat and her bag as she asked.

  Howard took hold of her elbow and hurried her to the front door. He did not want Erskine to trap them in the side passage. “The Goon,” he explained. “He was Erskine all along. And he’s howling mad for some reason, and he may still be following me. He locked us up, and when we got out, he chased me right across town.” The road was empty. Howard dragged Catriona out of doors and down toward Park Street.

  Catriona dragged in return and hung back. “Locked you up? Chased you? Just you?” She was horrified. “Howard Sykes, what have you done with Awful? I told you not to leave her alone!”

  “She’s all right. She’s with Dad,” Howard said, pulling Catriona frantically toward Zed Alley.

  “I don’t count Quentin!” Catriona said. “He’s far too absentminded. You’re the one I trust, and I told you to look after Awful.”

  “I am looking after her!” Howard shouted, exasperated. “She’s with a friend in his house, and so’s Dad. We’ll go in the car and get them.”

  “Oh, I see.” Catriona began at last to hurry as fast as Howard wanted her to. Howard paused to listen at the entrance to Zed Alley. It would be a nightmare to meet Erskine coming up it. But he could not hear footsteps, so he took the risk and hurried Catriona into it. “What a day!” Catriona gasped. “And Fifi still hasn’t turned up. I didn’t know whether to worry about Fifi or not. I suppose she’s with Archer. What do we do when we’ve got Quentin and Awful? Drive somewhere where Erskine can’t come? Oh, Howard, I used to like the Goon!”

  “He was just pretending,” said Howard. “I think we’ll have to find Venturus. He’s the one. He’s probably worse than Shine even. The trouble is, he lives in the future.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Catriona said as they came out into the Poly forecourt. Howard thought she meant Erskine was there and jumped back into the alley. But although there were a number of people about, none of them was huge and small headed. “No. I can believe anything of that family,” Catriona said, hastening toward the car.

  Howard understood what she meant and hurried after her “Mum,” he said, while she was unlocking the car, “where would you live if you lived in the future?”

  “Goodness knows,” said Catriona. She got in behind the wheel. Howard heard her say, above the noise of the starter, “In some house that hasn’t been built yet, I suppose.”

  Light dawned on Howard. Venturus farmed education. He turned slowly to look across the forecourt to where the line of big yellow diggers stood in front of a building made mostly of steel girders and scaffolding. There was now a noticeable doorway in the middle, made of concrete blocks. It all fitted. It fitted with the way Shine, Torquil, Hathaway, and Archer all lived so close together. It fitted with the inklings in Howard’s head.

  “The door’s unlocked,” said Catriona. “Get in.”

  Howard bent down to the open window. “Dad and Awful are at Twenty-six Spode Close,” he said. “It’s in the New Estate. When you’ve got them, drive over and see Auntie Mildred or something—somewhere right away from here anyway—and don’t come back till you hear it’s safe.”

  “Aren’t you coming then?” said Catriona.

  “No. I’d better find Venturus before Erskine arrives,” Howard said. He stood back. “Thank you for having me—adopting me, I mean.”

  “Oh, Howard!” said Catriona. “Listen—” Howard was already running, spuff-thump, toward the diggers, and did not hear her shouting.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Howard slipped among the parked diggers and stood looking through the half-made concrete door. It seemed unlikely, now that he looked, that anyone could live here. Inside, among the big girders, there was an empty space with a floor of yellow mud. There was nothing in the mud but puddles and trenches for drains. Well, Howard thought, if it didn’t work, he would simply have to try walking into every half-built building in town.

  He squared his shoulders and walked through the unfinished door.

  Instantly all sorts of very queer things happened. Halfway through his first step, the doorway was complete around Howard—high and grand-looking. Before his left foot came down beyond it—spuff—he seemed to be pushing his way through a heavy swing door made of glass. It took an effort. Howard pushed it open enough to slide around and put his right foot down beyond. To his surprise, that foot was not in a boot but in an old brown training shoe with yellow laces. Ahead of that foot in its trainer, he could see, rather mistily, a flight of four shallow marble steps leading up among the scaffolding.

  He went up the first step. His left boot did not go spuff there because it was no longer a boot, but a neat shoe at least two sizes larger than the boot. It took quite a push to get himself and his right foot onto the second step. The training shoe on that foot was now black, and so were the jeans on the leg above it. The scaffolding around him had gone misty by then, and the earth floor had vanished. In a milky, transparent way he could see something like a marble temple stretching ahead. The third step took an even bigger shove, and the foot that came down on that step was larger still, in an old tennis shoe, with ragged blue jeans above it. At the fourth step, which took a real heave to get up onto, the marble temple looked almost real and Howard could hardly see the girders. His right foot came down on that step in a spongy, bootlike shoe and a tight white trouser leg. And it was the same kind of shoe and white trouser on the other leg when he forced himself forward onto the marble floor.

  The temple was solid around him, vast and high and empty, with a humming somewhere in the distance. Venturus, it seemed, lived somewhere even larger than Dillian or Archer. Howard took a very much easier step forward and nearly fell over. He had simply not realized how big he had grown. He spread long arms for balance and looked dizzily down long white-trousered legs. He was, he saw, wearing a loo
se quilted coat, like a futuristic version of Hathaway’s robe. And he must have been more than seven feet tall.

  “I suppose I have to grow up to get to the future,” he said out loud. His voice rang deeply around the marble spaces and made him jump. He decided that the best way to walk was by looking straight ahead. So he began balancing in careful strides down the long marble hall, silent in his spongy shoes.

  There was a big mirror between the second set of marble pillars. Howard saw it out of the corner of his eye and thought the person there must be Venturus. But when the figure in the mirror whirled around to face him, he understood and tried to laugh.

  Someone had painted a message on the mirror in large white letters: “THIS IS THE SECOND TIME!”

  “I know it is,” Howard murmured in his deep bass voice. “Hathaway, Archer, and Erskine all know, too.”

  He looked at himself with interest in the mirror behind the letters. “I wouldn’t have known this was me!” he heard himself saying. Fully grown-up, he seemed to be built on the same huge lines as Erskine, except that—mercifully!—his head was the right size for the rest of him. His eyes were the same, but his face was so much thinner that it looked quite different. And the fringe he had been so pleased with was gone. He wore his hair longish and swept back in a way he did not care for at all.

  “Looks horrible,” he muttered, rumpling his hair about with a large hand, and turned away. “I wonder how big this place is.” He found he wanted to keep speaking. Even his unfamiliar voice was better than the humming silence of this vast, empty hall. Howard walked on down it, unsteadily learning to balance his height, and thought he did not care for the place at all. If you judged by his house, Venturus must be as cold, proud, and unfeeling as the rest of the family put together. “He probably is, if he’s stuck the rest of them here while he conquers the world,” Howard said to himself.