The Garden of Unearthly Delights (31 page)

‘He’s
dead,’
said the young man. ‘Died last Tuesday. Tragic business. We’re still trying
to get over the shock.’

Maxwell
stared at the idiot grin the young man now wore. ‘You seem to be bearing up
rather well,’ he said. ‘However, I don’t believe that either. Which way is it
to the count’s office?’

‘Over
the hills and a great way off,’ said the fish. ‘You have turned into a fish,’
said Maxwell. ‘Why?’

‘I’ll
have to ask you to move to the other side of the safety cordon,’ said the
policeman.

Maxwell
took a step backwards and found himself amongst a crowd. A crowd in
twentieth-century costume.

Outside.
In the street.

In
his
street.

It was
all there: the houses, the cars. The smell. The people. His neighbours.
Friends. Duck-Barry Ryan and Jack the Hat. Maxwell was home.

‘Hello,
Maxwell,’ said Sandy, the landlord from The Shrunken Head. ‘I’m glad I caught
up with you, you dropped this in the bar.’

‘I… what?’

‘This
scroll.’
Sandy
handed Maxwell
the Queen’s Award for Industry Award award of what now seemed a very very long
time ago.

‘What’s
this?’ Maxwell shook his head. ‘What is going on?’

‘It’s a
reality fracture, sir,’ said the policeman. ‘Scientists are working on it. The
house over there is where it started.’

‘That’s
my house.’

‘You’d
better get away before anyone finds out,’ said the policeman. ‘Go to
Patagonia
. That’s my advice.’

‘No,’
said Maxwell. ‘I’m
not
having this. This isn’t real.’

‘Are
you all right, dear?’ asked Maxwell’s wife.

‘The
dear one.’ Maxwell made those gagging sounds he sometimes made. ‘I’m back with
you?
I don’t want to be back with
you.
I don’t want to be here.’

‘You’ve
been working too hard, dear. Much too hard.’

‘I
never worked,’ said Maxwell. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You
won the award, dear, for your services to publishing. But you’ve been too
engrossed in your work. Twenty-three John Rimmer novels. You’ve been living
more in the books you write, than in the real world.’

‘The
books
I
write?’

‘The
doctor says it’s stress. You’ve had a breakdown. Believing that the characters
in your books are out to get you.’

‘No,’
Maxwell shook his head fiercely. ‘No. No. No. I’m not real here. I was never
real here. I was nobody here. I’m not this person any more. I’m the Imagineer.’

‘It’s
true, Dad.’

‘Dad?’
Maxwell looked down.

William
looked up at him. ‘Do what Mum says. Go along with the doctor. He’s got a
special drug that can make you better.

‘I’ll
just bet he has.’ Maxwell pushed his way past the safety cordon. He closed his
eyes and took a giant leap.

‘How
may I help you, sir?’ asked the golden-haired receptionist.

‘I have
to see Count Waldeck
now.’
Maxwell smashed down his fists on the
reception desk. ‘No more nonsense. No more—’

The
golden eyes stared deeply into his.

Maxwell
dragged his gaze away. ‘Great eyes,’ he said, ‘very hypnotic. But it won’t work
twice. Where is Count Waldeck?’

‘I’m
afraid Count Waldeck has gone on his holidays, sir.

‘No,’
Maxwell reached over the reception desk to grab hold of the young woman. His
hand passed right through her.

‘You’ll
have to make an appointment,’ she continued, turning the pages of her
appointments diary.

Maxwell
patted the diary. His hand passed through this also and he was patting the
desk.

‘Perhaps
I can pencil you in?’

Maxwell
shinned over the reception desk and dropped down behind it. Here he spied upon
the floor an intricate-looking device with several lenses projecting light.

Maxwell
stooped and ran a hand over the lenses. The young woman’s image fluttered and
shook.

‘A
hologram,’ said Maxwell. ‘It’s a bloody hologram. How can that be, here?’ Maxwell
picked up the projection device. The young woman’s image rose with it, until
she stood in mid air above the reception desk, still turning the pages of her
appointments diary. ‘Nineteen days’ time,’ she said.

Maxwell
found the off button, pressed it. The young woman vanished away. Maxwell
brought out the magic pouch, slipped the device into it and returned the pouch
to the pocket of his simply splendid coat. Then he ducked down beneath the
reception desk and rootled about amongst the shelves and drawers. There had to
be something here: floor plan, map of the building. Something.

The
sound of approaching footsteps kept Maxwell’s head well down.

‘He
said his name was Flashman.’ The voice belonged to Lord Archer. ‘He said he
knew my brother.’

‘Do we
have a Flashman here? I don’t know of any Flashman.’ Maxwell cocked an ear.
[9]
This voice he also knew. This
voice was that of Count Waldeck himself. ‘Where’s the receptionist?’ this voice
went on.

‘Gone
to powder her nose, perhaps.’ Maxwell heard a smacking sound, which he rightly
supposed to be that of Count Waldeck’s hand striking the side of Lord Archer’s
head.

‘Lean
over the counter and give the holoscope a thump, you craven buffoon.’

‘Yes,
Your Countship.’

Maxwell
heard the young man’s steps grow closer. And then his face loomed above. Lord
Archer stared down at Maxwell. And Maxwell smiled up at Lord Archer.

Had
William been present, there is no doubt that he could have predicted with
uncanny accuracy, precisely what Maxwell would do next.

Lord
Archer toppled backwards and fell to the floor, well and truly out for the
count. (Out for the
count,
geddit? Please yourselves then.)

‘Whatever
is the matter?’ asked Count Waldeck. ‘Have you fainted or something?’

‘Or
something.’ Maxwell rose from behind the reception desk, pistol drawn and red
sparks flickering in his eyes.

The
count took in the figure in the simply splendid coat. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘You’re not the receptionist.’

Maxwell
took in the count. He hadn’t changed, not one evil jot. Same great
horrid-looking bastard. Big and bulky, bald and bad. Not at all unlike Joss Ackland
in
Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey.
He always plays a good villain does
Joss Ackland. The count wore a kind of full-length black monk’s habit with a
mysterioso motif in silver on the chest.

‘Who am
I?’
Maxwell flexed his shoulders, leapt up onto the reception desk and
stood with the old legs akimbo. ‘I am Max Carrion, Imagineer.’

‘Never
heard of you,’ said the count. ‘Are you standing in for the receptionist? Has
the machine broken down again?’

‘I am
Max Carrion,’ said Max, ‘your nemesis.

‘I
don’t recall ordering a nemesis. Would you care to explain yourself?’

‘It’s
me.’
Max jumped down and swaggered over to the count. ‘Me, Max. I killed you.
Remember?’

The
count shook his big bald head. ‘If you’d killed me, I’m sure I would remember.
I don’t feel very dead. Have you been smoking something, young man?’

Maxwell
looked the count up and down. It definitely was the right man. And Sir John
Rimmer
was
in the barber’s shop. There was no mistake.’

‘Don’t
mess with me,’ snarled Max, brandishing his pistol. ‘I have come for Ewavett.
Take me to her at once.’

The
count shook his head once more. ‘I’m frightfully sorry,’ he said, ‘but you now
have me rightly bewildered. Who is Ewavett?’

‘The
metal woman. The mate of Aodhamm.’

‘Now
let me see if I have this straight. You are Mick Scallion—’

‘Max
Carrion,’ said Max.

‘Max
Carrion, sorry. You are Max Carrion, Imagineer, who killed
me.
And
you’ve come for a metal woman.’

‘Correct,’
said Max, who was almost having
his
doubts.

‘You
wouldn’t also be this “Flashman”, would you?’

‘That’s
me,’ said Max.

‘I
see.’ The count chewed upon the thumbnail of a big fat thumb. ‘Whose form are
you in?’

‘I’m
not in anybody’s form. I have travelled across two worlds to get here. I demand
Ewavett at once. And certain other things besides, but we can get to those one
at a time.’

The
count glanced around the foyer. There was no-one about. The count glanced at
his wristwatch. Maxwell also glanced at this. It was a
digital
wristwatch.

‘School
is going to be turning out in a moment,’ said the count. ‘Would you like to
come up to my study and talk about this?’ He dug a big hand into a habit
pocket.

‘No
tricks,’ said Maxwell, cocking his pistol.
[10]

‘Just
finding my keys.’ The count produced a big bunch. ‘Follow me, if you will.’

‘I
will, don’t worry.’

The
count led the way up a broad sweep of marble stairs. The marvellous
architectural style and the elaborate décor of the staircase walls mirrored
that of the foyer, which was a shame, as the foyer had received no description
whatsoever.

Along a
pillared gallery they went, up another flight of stairs, through rooms
decorated in many colours, all of which began with the letter G, across an open
courtyard high upon an upper level.

Through
a chapel. Past several laboratories. In through one door of a deserted refectory
and out through another. Across a landing. Down a flight of steps …

And
back into the foyer.

‘We are
back in the foyer,’ said Maxwell.

‘My
office is behind the reception desk,’ said the count. ‘Follow me.’

Maxwell
followed. The count unlocked a big pine door. ‘After you,’ he said.

‘Bollocks,’
said Max.

‘After
me then.’ Count Waldeck lead the way.

Maxwell
stepped into the room. ‘Aha!’ he cried. ‘Aha!’

‘Aha?’
asked Count Waldeck, settling himself behind a desk.

‘Aha!
This room.’ Maxwell looked all about this room. It was long and wide, yet low
of ceiling, and a full and precise description of it can be found on page 24.
[11]
‘Sir John Rimmer’s room.’
Maxwell gestured thus and whither. ‘This is his room. And
shit,
that’s
my armchair.’

Maxwell
stalked over to the armchair in question.
‘My
armchair, that my wife
sold to a gypsy who sold it to
Sandy
at The Shrunken Head.’

‘It’s a
Dalbatto,’ said the Count. ‘Very valuable.’

‘Then
you admit that this is Sir John Rimmer’s room?’

‘Indeed.’
The count flipped open a silver cigarette case, took out a ciggy and lit it
from a table lighter the shape of the World Cup.

‘Oily?’
said he.

‘Pardon?’

‘Oily
rag. Fag.’

‘No
thanks,’ said Maxwell. ‘I evidently gave it up.’

‘Now,
let me see,’ the count puffed upon his cigarette. ‘You were saying that this
was Sir John Rimmer’s room.’

‘I
was,’ said Maxwell, seating himself in his favourite armchair.

‘Do you
really have to sit there? It is most valuable.’

‘I do.’

‘Then,
as you wish. Now, yes. This
was
Sir John Rimmer’s room. Sir John was the
Dean of the faculty. In fact, he was the founder of the University. It was once
known as the
University
of
Rimmer
.’

‘City
of
Rameer
,’ said Maxwell.

‘Knight-speak,’
said the count. ‘They twist things all about. But Sir John founded it. Sad.
Sad.’

‘Why
sad?’

The
count twirled a plump finger against his forehead. ‘The strain. Old age. He is
retired now. A great man. Quite mad. Thinks he’s a barber. We look after him.
Very sad.’

‘No.
NO. No.’ Maxwell shook his no-ing head.
‘You
took the University from
him.
You
took his memory. Like
you
take the memories of the boys
who come here on their tenth birthdays.’

‘Take
their memories? Wherever did you get that idea?’

‘They
come here with knowledge which you steal from them. They return to the
outerworld with all memories of this place wiped away, saying, “The City of
Rameer lies over yonder hill.” That’s what
you
do to them.’