The Garden of Unearthly Delights (35 page)

‘I’m
touched,’ said Maxwell. ‘Naturally I wouldn’t have considered taking the
credit, but as you put it like that.’

‘I do,’
said William.

‘He
does,’ said Sir John. ‘So we will overlook the fact that as it was actually
William who led you here, then he should take all the credit and be slayer by
proxy.’

‘That’s
fine with me,’ said Maxwell.

‘And
anyway,’ Sir John continued, ‘William is going to be the new Vice-Principal of
the University. He is going to help me restore it to the great seat of learning
it was originally intended to be. Together he and I will spread knowledge and
wisdom across this world.’

‘We
certainly shall,’ said William.

‘Well,’
said Maxwell, ‘what a happy ever after. Things have turned out well after all.
No,
hang about.
They haven’t for ME.’

‘I’m
sure they will,’ said Sir John. ‘But for now, let’s Rock ‘n’ Roll.’

And Rock ‘n’ Roll they
did. Maxwell
was
carried shoulder-high about the quadrangle. There
was
a feast and he
did
make a speech (though not a very good one). He
was
awarded an honorific title, that of Imagineer in Residence, and he
was
sworn
in and everything.

Toasts
were made and drinks were drunk and grub was scoffed a-plenty. And at the end
of it all, Maxwell, who now calculated that it was at least two days since he’d
last had a sleep, was carried once more shoulder-high, but this time pissed as
a pudding, and laid to rest on the dead count’s cosy bed.

One
tiny piece of unpleasantness later occurred when Maxwell booted with some violence
an amorous Lord Archer from this very bed, but other than for this, he had to
conclude, most drunkenly, that the day had really been a great success.

And
then he slept the sleep of the just. By proxy, of course, but most well.

He
awoke next morning with a blinder of a hangover, staggered to the refectory and
joined Sir John and William for breakfast at the high table.

Sir
John tucked into a fry-up of Herculean proportions. Maxwell sipped coffee and
dipped bread soldiers into a boiled egg.

‘William
has told me everything,’ said Sir John, scooping sausage into his mouth. ‘It
appears that you’re really up shit creek in a smegma canoe.’

Maxwell
sipped further coffee and grunted a ‘yes’.

‘If I
arranged transportation to MacGuffin, would that help?’

‘Magical
transportation?’

‘In any
form you choose, within reason.’

‘Then
it wouldn’t help, as magic will not pass through the grid.’

‘My
magic will pass through the grid, Maxwell.’

‘It
will?’

‘It
will.’ Sir John stuffed fried bread into his face. ‘But don’t ask how, because
I won’t tell you.’

‘So you
are strong once more in spells?’

‘Never
more so.’

‘Well,
Rock ‘n’—’

‘Please
don’t,’ said William.

‘Sorry.
But this is marvellous news. Then all I shall require is a cloak of
invisibility, an amulet of unlimited power that wards off vicious magic, a
spell of demobilization and another to inflict a slow and agonizing death.
Perhaps, too, an enchanted sword that cuts through steel and a charm to make me
irresistible to women.’

‘Why
the last one?’ Sir John Rimmer asked.

‘Because
I haven’t had a shag in nearly a century.’

‘That’s
fair enough.’

‘All
right!
Then let’s get casting spells.’

‘Ah,
no.’ Sir John rammed an entire bread roll into his mouth and chewed noisily.
‘What I meant by, fair enough, was that it
was
fair enough you should
ask for such a charm. I can’t let you have one though.’

‘Why
not?’

‘Because
you are not a magician, Maxwell. I think we have had this conversation before.
I can offer you one-way transportation and anything
reasonable
that you
think you might need. But you must rely on your skills as an imagineer. Skills
that you have not as yet used to their fullest potential. I have every
confidence you will succeed.’

‘How
about just the cloak of invisibility?’

‘No!
You can take MacGuffin’s pouch. I will arrange that it passes through the grid.
But that is all you get.’

‘Well,
thanks a lot,’ moaned Maxwell, scratching on a stubbly chin.

‘But
there is one thing you really must take.’

‘And
that is?’

‘A
bath,’ said Sir John. ‘You really pong.’

So Maxwell took a bath.
And as he bathed he pondered. And as he pondered he thought. And as he thought
he schemed. And so on and so forth.

It
wasn’t really all that bad. He’d only have the pouch, but that was all he’d
ever expected he’d have. He’d have the transport. And he’d have the element of
surprise. He’d beat the foul MacGuffin. Yes he would. Beat him and snatch back
his soul. Beat him and liberate Aodhamm and Ewavett. Beat him and liberate  the
 villagers too. He would do the right thing. Oh yes.

There’d
be glory in this for him. And serious shoulder-high carrying too.

And
there were women in MacGuffin’s village. ‘Yeah.’ Maxwell lay back
amongst the soapsuds. He
would
triumph. He just knew that he would.

And a
great plan entered Maxwell’s head and he began to smile.

26

The cricket pavilion rose
into the air.

Maxwell
waved down to the well-wishers gathered below.

There
weren’t very many of them.

Apparently
word had got about that Maxwell was not really the slayer of Count Waldeck
after all. That it was, in fact, a chap called Rushmear who’d done the actual
slaying, and Maxwell was only slayer by proxy. A petition was being passed
around with a view to stripping Maxwell of his honorific title. Someone had
even thrown a stone at him in the quadrangle.

Maxwell
didn’t care. ‘Stuff ‘em,’ he said, as he waved from the veranda to William and
Sir John. And Lord Archer. And that was about all.

Maxwell
went inside and closed the door. The cricket pavilion had a new smell now: one
of fresh paint. It had been tastefully redecorated. The veranda roof mended.
Bloodstains scrubbed from the floor. Certain structural alterations made, to
provide first-class sleeping accommodation, storage space for provisions, an
extensive wardrobe of clothes, certain specific items Maxwell had requested
from Sir John and a stable for Black Bess.

The
journey was expected to last at least five days. But time can pass pretty
quickly when you’re on that final stretch of undiverted road, bound for the
epic confrontation, when the villain gets his just deserts and the hero bravely
triumphs.

Pretty
quickly indeed.

The
pavilion dropped down towards the
village
of
MacGuffin
.
Maxwell sat in a Lloyd loom chair, drinking a Buck’s Fizz and smoking a small
cigar. As the village swelled up to greet him, he leaned an arm upon the
veranda rail and tried very very hard to remain cool, calm and calculating. It
was not going to be easy.

The
pavilion settled onto a grassy meadow, Maxwell finished his drink, rose and
stretched. Not fifty yards distant stood Count Waldeck’s airship. Though
‘stood’ was perhaps not the word. ‘Wallowed’ maybe, or ‘lay wrecked’, which was
two words, but an accurate description.

Clearly
the landing had not gone as smoothly as the take-off. The galleon lay with its
keel arse-up’rds and its prop shafts bent and banjoed. The gas bag sagged like
a wounded willy. The airship’s airshipping days were done.

Maxwell
shrugged, stubbed out his cigar, strode into the pavilion and slammed shut the
door.

A short
while later the door reopened. A fine white horse, with an elaborate
silver-studded bridle, a very posh saddle and lots of tinsel tied to its tail
emerged, led by a fantastic figure in a wonderful costume.

This
fantastic figure wore an enormous turban, bedecked with glittering gemstones
and floating ostrich plumes. A voluminous black gown of embroidered velvet
trailed down the pavilion steps behind him. A silk blouse was gathered at the
waist by a cummerbund of purple brocade. Floppy trews of powder blue were
secured at the ankles by tasselled cords. Persian slippers with curly toes,
worn over lurex socks.

The
fantastic figure’s face was somewhat fancy. It was stained a violent orange,
which clashed a tad with his bright green beard.

And if
the fantastic figure’s face was fancy, then no less were his fingers —
fabulously festooned with fifteen fashionable finger rings. Phew.

Maxwell
grinned (ferociously) beneath his false whiskers. The morning he’d spent in the
props cupboard of the university’s amateur dramatic society had been well
worth while.

And so
to PHASE ONE of his FOUR-PART MASTERPLAN.

Maxwell climbed carefully
onto Black Bess and gave her a ‘giddy up gently’.

As he
rode past the ruined airship, Maxwell spied two things that saddened him, yet
urged him on his way. The first was the corpse of a skyman, his head twisted
around the wrong way.

The
second was the coffin of Ewavett, empty, with its lid cast aside.

Maxwell
rode on towards the village, breathing easily, keeping his cool.

Into
the village he went, head held high, bum bouncing up and down, and horse going
clip-clop on the cobbles. As he drew level with Budgen’s, Maxwell saw the front
door open and a young man in a tweedy suit stumble into the street.

He was
an even-featured young man, with swags of yellow hair and, Maxwell knew, as the
young man knew, that the young man’s name was Dave.

Dave
carried two bags of shopping and he limped across the street in front of
Maxwell. He hadn’t gone but a few limps, though, before an armadillo scuttled
from his left trouser bottom, ran between his feet and sent him tumbling to the
cobbles. Dave’s shopping went every-which-way and Maxwell observed with a rueful
smile that it was the self-same shopping he’d helped the lad pick up during
their first and fateful encounter.

Maxwell
drew Black Bess up short.

Dave
lay clutching his ankle and moaning miserably.

Maxwell
affected a haughty detachment. He adjusted the folds of his ample gown into a
pleasing composition.

‘I have
fallen,’ Dave complained. ‘Won’t you help me up?’

Maxwell
ignored him.

‘I’ve
dropped my shopping.’ Dave indicated the battered relics of many a previous
drop.

Maxwell
studied cloud formations.

Dave
made a grumpy face and stood up. ‘Can I help you at all?’ he enquired.

Maxwell
glanced down, as if noticing him for the first time. ‘Are you addressing me?’
he asked, in a deep dark voice of much rehearsing. ‘Or are you speaking to my
horse?’

‘You,’
said Dave. Which was a remarkably straight piece of answering, considering his
previous record.

‘Well
don’t,’ said Maxwell, urging Black Bess, on, ‘foul peasant that you are.’

Dave
made a face of indecision. He stared down at his decoy shopping, then up at the
horse’s receding rear end. He dithered.

A small
rodent stuck its head out from the top pocket of his jacket and bit him in the
ear. Dave ceased his dithering. ‘Oi,’ he called after Maxwell. ‘Come back.
Don’t go.’

Maxwell
rode on up the high street.

Dave
caught up with him. He pulled at a curly toed slipper. ‘Hold it,’ he cried.
‘Hold it.’

Maxwell
kept on riding. ‘What is your name, peasant?’ he asked.

‘No,
it’s not peasant,’ said Dave, pulling once more. ‘And neither is it bastard,
though many err in this regard. It’s Dave.’

‘Well,
Dave,’ said Maxwell in his deep dark voice. ‘I am The Honourable Eddie Von
Wurlitzer, Duke of Earl, and emissary to his marvellousness, The Sultan of
Rameer, and if you don’t get your bleeding hand off my slipper, folk will
henceforth know you as “headless”.’

Dave
removed his hand.

‘Now
bugger off,’ said Maxwell.

And Dave scampered away.
Maxwell had a busy day planned for the professional shopping-dropper. But first
.

As
Maxwell approached the manse of MacGuffin, his stomach began to knot and his
ring-bedazzled fingers to tremble violently. Maxwell hastily pulled a couple of
valium from his pocket and tossed them down his throat. He’d liberated them
from the medicine cabinet of the late count. And though, ultimately, drugs
never really help you, that’s no excuse for not taking them.