The Garden of Unearthly Delights (29 page)

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 bastards, 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 Romeer
. 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?’