The Garden of Unearthly Delights (4 page)

‘Magic
doesn’t work,’ said Maxwell. ‘I’ve tried it.’

‘Magic
didn’t work in the Age of Technology, how could it? It works again now though.’

‘You are
pulling my plonker, surely?’

‘Pardon
me?’

‘Sorry.
Something hung over from the age of slang colloquialism.

‘Perhaps
you should let Max take a look outside,’ said Dr Harney.

‘It’s
Maxwell,’
said Maxwell. ‘After
Maxwell
House. My mum had this new neighbour
move into the flat upstairs. And he came down to borrow some coffee one
evening. And.., you know. .

‘You
have much to be grateful for,’ said Sir John.

‘I do?’

‘Well,
he could have come down for some
Domestos.’

‘Or
some
Ovaltine,’
said Dr Harney. ‘Or a packet of
Durex,’
said the
boy Collins. Three scathing glances turned his way. ‘Sorry,’ said the lad. ‘It
just slipped out. Er, the
Durex
I mean. Not the willy in the
Durex.
Er—’

‘Actually
he’s a bit of a prat in the books,’ said Maxwell.

‘Comic
relief,’ said Sir John.

‘Hang
about. Hang about,’ said Maxwell. ‘Before this goes any further. Say I accept
that something really weird has happened and the earth
has
moved into
some new cycle or age or something. How does this explain you lot being here?
This room being here? This is
your
room, isn’t it? Your study in the
Hidden
Tower
? “The location of which is known to yourself alone.” Explain to me
how I’m
here
talking to
you.
How you, a bunch of fictional
characters, exist?’

‘In all
truth,’ said Sir John, ‘it is
you
who should do the explaining. As you
say, you are
here
in
my
study, conversing with
myself
and
my
trusted companions. How do
you
explain that?’

‘I
don’t,’ said Maxwell. ‘But then, frankly, I don’t give a toss.’

Sir
John made tut-tut-tuttings with his tongue.

Dr
Harney pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat and made a worried face at it.

Danbury
Collins moved nervously from one foot to the other.

Dr
Harney spoke. ‘The last reader is almost halfway through the final chapter,’ he
said. ‘We have hardly any time left. Max must know what he has to do before the
book closes for ever upon us.’

Maxwell
looked from face to worried face. ‘What
is
going on?’ he asked.

‘All
right!’ Sir John leapt from the chesterfield. ‘Max, you must know this. My
companions and I
are
fictional characters. We have no objective reality.
We only live within our readers’ imaginations. But there we have life. There we
exist. We have our adventures. We engross our readers. We become real. At this
very moment, someone is reading this. Imbuing us with reality. Soon, however,
they will become aware of the great change that has overtaken the planet. They
will put down the book, never to open it again. Then we will cease for ever to
be.’

‘That’s
tragic,’ said Maxwell.

‘I do
so agree. But there it is. That’s why it is so important that we pass on to you
our knowledge. Pass on the books of magic, which, though before had only power
within the imagination of the reader, can, in this new world, bend space and
effect change. Pass on the techniques and skills you will need to survive and
succeed in this strange new world.’

‘I’m
very touched,’ said Maxwell. ‘But why
me
of all people? I’m just a
work-shy bum. I have no special talents. Quite truthfully, I’m really rather
dull.’

‘Quite
truthfully, you’re really
very
dull.’

‘Oh,
thanks a lot.’

‘But we
have no choice in the matter. Dull old Maxwell Karrien will soon cease to be.’

‘He
will?’

‘He
will. To be replaced by Max Carrion, Imagineer.’

‘Max
Carrion,’ said Maxwell. ‘I quite like the sound of that. But what’s an
imagineer, for Goddess sake?’

‘A kind
of cross between Bladerunner, Terminator, Darkman and Doctor Strange.’

‘Sounds
a bit derivative.’

‘You’ll
put a new slant on it.’

‘I’m
sure I won’t.’

‘I’m
sure you will, Max. But listen, we must be quick. We can only talk to you like
this because the reader is daydreaming for a moment. In a minute he will
continue reading and then we must continue to act out our roles. We are
powerless to alter the plot. We must pass on our skills to you now.

Maxwell
shook his head. ‘But you still haven’t told me why you’ve chosen
me
of
all people for this.’

Sir
John Rimmer sighed deeply. ‘Because, my dear Max, it is
you
who are
reading the book.
You
are the last reader.’

‘Me?’

‘You.’

‘Oh.’

‘You
see,’ said Dr Harney, ‘fictional characters can’t choose their readers. Would
that they could. But as you are our final reader, to you we bequeath our
knowledge. And…‘ He paused, his mouth hanging open, and ceased to move.

‘Go
on,’ said Maxwell. ‘What?’

‘He…‘ Sir John half turned and then froze to a statue.

‘What’s
happening?
Danbury
?’

Danbury
Collins managed to say, ‘The book is being read again. Now
he
comes.’

‘He?
Who?’

A
violent knocking now came upon the chamber door that Maxwell had sought earlier
to escape by, but failed to locate.

Dr
Harney became galvanized into action. He twisted the pommel of his lacquered
cane and drew from the shaft a shining blade.

Sir
John was moving once again, this time towards the door.

‘What’s
going on?’ asked Maxwell, knowing something was and fumbling to free his
bootlaces.

‘Have a
care,’ called Sir John. ‘He will not have come alone.

‘Who’s
he?’ Maxwell slipped forward from his armchair and fell once more to the
floor.

Elm
splinters, shards of aspen inlay, fractured gilded bolts. The study door
lurched from its hinges, smashed into the room.

Two
monstrous forms — distorted heads with quills for hair and light bulb eyes,
snapping jaws and pointed tongues, great barrel chests in leather harness and
hands that reached down to the knees — charged forward, tumbling priceless
antiques, elbowing aside the library globes and statuary. Roaring, yelling.
Terrifying.

Maxwell
took shelter beneath one of the satinwood escritoires and looked on fearfully
as an alarming scene began to unfold.

‘Back,
foul spawn of Satan’s bed-sit.’ Sir John raised up his hands, uttered
syllables, formed enigmatic figures with his fingers. Maxwell’s ears popped as
waves of pressure buffeted the room.
Sparks
crackled from Sir John’s hands. Beams of energy flew from his
contorted fingers and smote the monsters, fiercely, thus and so.

The
things cried out in anguish, backed away and cowered. Then they shrivelled,
guttered like two dying candles, and were gone.

‘Rock
‘n’ Roll,’ whispered Maxwell. ‘Was that something else, or what?’

‘Dr
Harney, the scroll,’ cried Sir John. ‘He must not have the scroll.’

What
scroll? thought Maxwell. And what
he?

The
doctor patted at his pockets. ‘I don’t have the scroll. It’s gone from where I
put it.’

‘What?’
whispered Maxwell, keeping his head down and struggling to untie his laces.

Sir
John’s face was grave. ‘The scroll holds all the power,’ he said. ‘He that can
decipher it will have ultimate control. It must never fall into the hands of
the count. If it did, all would be lost.’

‘Not
for me it wouldn’t.’

Maxwell
jerked his head towards the speaker and was quite impressed by what he saw.
Framed in the doorway was the very picture of evil: big and bald and bad to the
bone; skin bone-white and clothes of graveyard black; the face, that mask of
hatred and contempt that villains wear. The overall demeanour one of menace.
Sinister and cruel.

‘Count Waldeck,’
said Sir John. ‘We meet at last.’

‘It’s
the count,’ whispered Maxwell to his boots. ‘Sir John’s arch enemy. The
Moriarty to his Sherlock Holmes. This must be the big confrontation scene in
the final chapter of the book. The book I’m supposed to be reading at this very
moment. And somehow I’m in it too. Because I’m so engrossed in it, or
something. I suppose it makes some kind of sense, if you’re prepared to let it.
And I
am.’

Maxwell’s
boots had no comment to make.

‘You
know what I’ve come for,’ said the count. ‘If you wish me to spare your lives,
hand it over.’

‘Never.’
Sir John crooked his fingers, uttered words. Power welled. light blazed. Then
faltered. Fizzled. Fluttered and melted away.

‘Bugger,’
said Sir John.

The
count dusted specks of white from night-clad shoulders. ‘You would appear to
have given me dandruff,’ he said. ‘But no matter.’ He flung up his hands.
Golden cords snaked across the room, whipped about Sir John, bound him fast.

Sir
John fought and wriggled but to no avail.

‘My
magic is more powerful than your own,’ sneered the count. ‘The day is mine, I
think.’

‘But
how did you find this place?’ Sir John squared up in his bondage. ‘Its location
is a secret, known only to myself and my loyal companions.’

‘Loyal?’
The count raised an evil eyebrow, laughed an evil laugh.

‘No.’
Sir John turned his eyes to his companions. Dr Harney was bound fast.
Danbury
, however, was not.

‘You
told him?’

Danbury
shuffled his DMs and giggled ghoulishly. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘But
why?’

‘Look,
I didn’t ask to be written. And it’s more fun being the bad guy. Everyone knows
that.’

‘The
scroll,’ said the count. ‘Where is the scroll?’

‘Max
has it,’ said
Danbury
.

‘Max?
Who is this Max?’

Maxwell,
who had finally freed his bootlaces, was edging towards the door.

‘That
Max,’ said
Danbury
, pointing to
the Max in question.

‘Oh
dear,’ said Maxwell, climbing to his feet.

‘Give
me the scroll.’

Maxwell
grinned a sickly grin. ‘I don’t have any scroll. And I’m really not supposed to
be in this. Would it be all right if I just sort of slipped away?’

‘No it
would not. Give me the scroll.’

‘I
don’t have any scroll.’

‘He
does,’ said
Danbury
. ‘I sent it
to him in the mail yesterday, after I stole, it from Dr Harney.’

‘In the
mail?’ Maxwell dug into his inner pocket, pulled out a roll of paper. The
Queen’s Award for Industry Award (award). ‘You don’t mean this?’

‘That’s
it. Give it to me now.’ The count took a step forward.

Maxwell
took one back. ‘Not a chance,’ said he.

‘Give
it to him.’
Danbury
made urging
gestures. ‘He’ll let you join his gang.’

‘I
don’t want to join his gang. He’s a right bastard.’

‘Bastards
have more fun,’ said the count.

‘Surely
that’s
blondes
have more fun.’

‘You could
dye your hair,’ said
Danbury
.
‘You’re a right little shit, you are.’ Maxwell clutched the scroll of paper to
his bosom. ‘I’m not giving this to anyone. In fact, I’m going to rip the bloody
thing to pieces.’

‘You
won’t do that.’

‘Oh no,
and for why?’

Danbury
smiled. ‘Because you haven’t the strength.’

‘I
have, you know.’ Maxwell gripped the scroll between both hands and struggled
without success to rip it up. ‘I haven’t,’ he concluded, somewhat puffed. ‘I
wonder why that is.’

‘Because
I poisoned your cup of coffee. You have only moments to live.’

‘You
thorough going swine!’

‘So
I’ll take
that.’
Danbury
reached forward and tore the scroll from Maxwell’s fingers. ‘You can’t change
the plot. The count wins this time.’

‘No.’
Maxwell’s fingers were turning numb. His mouth was growing dry.

‘But
yes.’
Danbury
knelt down before
the count and offered up the scroll.

‘Good
boy, my loyal servant, now take this.’ The count placed a silver pistol into
the upraised hand. ‘And kill them all.’