The Garden of Unearthly Delights (5 page)

‘Yes,
my lord.’
Danbury
rose, turned
and aimed the gun at Sir John.

‘No,’
croaked Maxwell. ‘You can’t do that. The series can’t finish this way. It just
can’t.’

‘It
can, you know.’ Danbury Collins cocked back the hammer and pulled the trigger.
Maxwell turned his face away. Another shot rang out and Dr Harney too fell
dead.

‘No,
no, no, no, no, no,’ gagged Maxwell, slumping down onto his knees. ‘It’s all
wrong. The bad guys can’t win. By the Goddess, I feel sick.’

‘That
will pass,’ said
Danbury
. ‘Then
you’ll just feel dead.’

‘
Danbury
,’ said the count.

‘Yes,
master?’

‘Shoot
yourself in the head, will you?’

‘Certainly,
master, anything you say.’

Danbury
put the pistol to his temple and shot his brains out. ‘I think I
might just have taken loyalty to extremes there,’ he murmured, as he crumpled,
lifeless, to the floor.

‘Good
lad.’ The count made free with the evil grins and unrolled Maxwell’s
certificate. And then a look of some concern appeared upon his face. ‘What is
this?’ he muttered. ‘WHAT IS THIS?’

‘It’s a
Queen’s Award for Industry Award,’ said Max, ‘award.’

The
count spun round.

And
Maxwell raised his head.

There
in the doorway stood himself, though looking somewhat better than he’d ever
looked before. His hair was combed high into a shining crest. The face was
tanned, corded with muscle about the hard-set mouth. The eyes were glinting
beneath down-curving brows.

His
hands were thrust deeply into the pockets of a simply splendid coat of black
leather that reached almost to the ankles of a similarly splendid pair of
riding boots. This coat hung open to reveal a cravat of dark material, secured
by silver pins, a rich crimson brocade waistcoat and a number of belts, which
holstered pistols, daggers and a samurai sword in a polished scabbard. His
corduroy trousers bulged at the knees with pockets, which no doubt harboured
further fearsome armament.

This
Maxwell looked like he meant business.

‘So,’
said the count, ‘I don’t think we have been introduced.’

‘The
name is Carrion,’ said Carrion, ‘Max Carrion, Imagineer.’

‘You
don’t look particularly imaginative, Mr Carrion. More like a cross between
Bladerunner, Terminator, Darkman and Doctor Strange.’

‘He
looks bloody good to me,’ croaked Maxwell, making unpleasant death-rattle
sounds in his throat. ‘But then, I am rather dull.’

‘And
you’ll soon be rather dead,’ said the count. ‘But not before
you,’
said
Max Carrion. ‘Oh, don’t waste my time, please.’ Count Waldeck flung up his
hands and made mystical passes. A stream of purple energy arced towards the
chap in the simply splendid coat.

The
chap moved not an eyelash.

The
gush of power engulfed him. Stinging. Blistering. Consuming.

Max
Carrion stood, cool and unconcerned. The count’s face contorted, he rocked upon
his heels, ground his teeth, cast further bolts of force.

Max
took a packet of Woodbine from his pocket, withdrew one, held it towards the
flames that engulfed him and drew a puff or two.

‘What?’
The count grew purple in the face. His body rocked and shivered. More light
came, but weaker. And then none at all.

‘All
done?’ asked Max Carrion.

‘What?’
The count examined his fingers. They were a bit charred about the tips. He
looked all done.

‘I
think he’s all done,’ said Max.

‘I
think he
is,’
said Maxwell.

‘What?’
went the count once more, turning to the seated poisoned fellow.

‘You’ve
run out of steam,’ said that man, rising to his feet, then stooping to pluck
the pistol from
Danbury
’s dead
hand.

‘What?’

‘You’re
all used up. And now you’re dead.’ Maxwell turned the pistol on the count,
pulled the trigger and shot him.

‘Nice
one,’ said Max.

‘Thanks,’
said Maxwell, blowing into the barrel.

‘Congratulations,’
said Sir John, dusting fragments of the golden bonds away from his person.

‘A
first-rate job,’ agreed Dr Harney, jumping up and aiding the long man into the
vertical. ‘Most skilfully performed.’

‘Thanks
too,’ said Maxwell.

Groan
and croak, went the count. ‘You shot me.’

Maxwell
grinned down at him. ‘Well, I couldn’t have you win, could I?’

‘But
how did you do it? How did you change the ending? I was supposed to win.’

Maxwell’s
grin turned towards Sir John. ‘Should I tell him?’ he asked.

‘I
think you should,’ said the long man. ‘The villain always gets an explanation
from his Nemesis. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something.

‘All
right.’ Maxwell looked down at the count. ‘How are you doing for time?’

‘I’ll
last about another minute, get a move on.’

‘Right.
OK. Well, it’s all quite simple really. You see, under normal circumstances, a
reader can’t change the ending of the book he’s reading. Even if he could, it
wouldn’t make any difference, because there’d be thousands of other copies
around, being read by thousands of other people.

‘But
you see, this is different. As Sir John explained to me earlier,
I’m
the
last reader. So I can do whatever I want. I read the book right through to the
end. And I didn’t like it, not with you winning and everything. So I flicked
back a few pages, got a bottle of Tippex and made some changes. I wrote myself
in. That’s how I came to be here, you see. I wrote myself in as Sir John’s new
apprentice. I already knew of
Danbury
’s treachery, so I took a few precautions. Like equipping Sir John
and the doctor with bullet-proof vests and switching the poison
Danbury
put in my coffee for harmless
sugar.’

‘But
who’s the bastard in the simply splendid leather coat?’ The count made feeble
gestures towards Max Carrion.

Maxwell’s
grin was still on full. ‘He’s a figment of my imagination. Your powers were
greater than Sir John’s, so I had to have you use them all up. Then I could
simply shoot you. Which I did.’

‘Oh,’
said the count. ‘Well, fair enough. I suppose in the long run, it really
doesn’t matter which one of us wins. When you close the book we’ll all cease to
exist anyway.’

‘True.
But as the last reader, I felt it fitting that the book should end the way I
wanted it to end.’

‘Then I
suppose I’m dead.’

‘I
suppose you are.’

And he
was.

‘Bravo,’
said Sir John, adjusting his beard. ‘You have certainly proved yourself an
imagineer of the first order, Maxwell. What do you plan to do now?’

Maxwell
scratched his head without shame. ‘Close the book, then venture out into this
strange new world, I suppose.’

‘A
sound idea. Our thoughts go with you.’

‘So I
trust will whatever books of magic spells you possess. Along with any powerful
talismans and protective amulets. If magic works in this new age, then
I
shall
be the one to work it.’

Sir
John pursed his lips and shivered his beard. ‘I regret to disappoint you
there,’ he said. ‘Such items are beyond price and could’ never be considered as
largess to propitiate a total stranger who just happened by through fortuitous
circumstance.’

‘What
gratitude is this?’ cried Maxwell. ‘I am appalled by what I hear.’

‘I
promised you knowledge,’ said Sir John. ‘And knowledge I impart. It is the
knowledge that you now possess a creative imagination sufficient to perform
remarkable deeds. The knowledge that, should you choose to apply yourself to
just causes, you will ultimately triumph over all who would prevail against
you.

‘Such
knowledge is no doubt profound,’ said Maxwell uncheerily. ‘But your propositions
I believe to be somewhat quixotic. Perhaps you might spare me some minor spell
from one of your great tomes to aid me on my way. One to instantly disable a
potential enemy, multiply gold or indefinitely postpone the ravages of old age
would not go unappreciated.’

‘Cast
such frivolous notions from your mind,’ said Sir John. ‘You are now Max
Carrion, Imagineer. Think only of noble deeds and high moral standards. Dr
Harney will show you to the door.’

‘I
won’t stand for this,’ declared Maxwell. ‘I will rewrite it all. Where is my
Tippex? Where’s my Biro?’

‘Many
leagues away from here.’

‘I have
been shabbily used,’ protested Maxwell. ‘Don’t think you can simply cast me out
in such a churlish fashion. Am I not Max Carrion, Imagineer?’

‘You
certainly are,’ said Sir John. ‘Now Dr Harney, please, the door.’

3

Although Maxwell put up a
respectable resistance, he was no match for Sir John and Dr Harney, who, at
length, with the aid of sword stick and cricket bat, drove him from the
premises.

Outside,
with the great tower door now firmly slammed upon him, Maxwell fumed and cursed
his erstwhile hosts, reserving especial tirades of condemnation for the infamy
of his imaginized double. He of the simply splendid coat who had, throughout
the uneven struggle, stood passively by, smoking a Wild Woodbine and showing
not the least concern for the welfare of his creator.

When
finally he had run himself dry of invective and bruised many toes through
futile door-kicking, Maxwell marshalled his thoughts. It was time to go home.

Now the
first of Maxwell’s marshalled thoughts was that, as he was now no longer in the
book he had apparently been reading, he should therefore be back in his own
front room, sitting in his armchair, the very book upon his knees and Bic and Tippex
close to hand. A glance about at his alien surroundings, however, assured him
that this was not, in fact, the case.

Maxwell
stood upon a promontory of tended grass that rose from picturesque foundations.
Story-book meadows and cultivated pasture lands spread from near to far away.

Above,
Sir John’s
Hidden
Tower
reared in Gothic splendour, a babble
of carved pink stone, helmeted by turrets and cupolas that blinked in the
golden sunlight. All very nice if you like that kind of thing. But Maxwell did
not.

‘I must
imagine that I’m home,’ Maxwell told himself. ‘And then I will be. Imagine
that I have closed the book and that I am home. And then I will awaken from
this daydream or nightmare or whatever.’ Maxwell closed his eyes, screwed his
face into an expression of deep concentration and thought himself back home.

‘There,’
said Maxwell, opening his eyes. Then, ‘By the Goddess!’ he continued.

He was
still where he had been a moment before. But now the vista had drastically
changed. The grass about him rose in course blades almost to his waist, the
story-book meadows and cultivated pasture lands had become gorse-grown
moorlands, the
Hidden
Tower
was nothing but a jumble of fallen
stone.

Maxwell
made a rueful face and hugged his arms. There was a definite chill in the air,
and the reason for it was all too plain to see. Above the barren landscape, in
a clear and cloudless sky, the sun hung nearly at its zenith. But the sun was
strange: swollen, bloated, ruby red, as if about to set. A thin black line was
evident about the solar disc.

Maxwell
made a sullen sound to go with his rueful face.
‘That
is not my fault,’
he murmured.
‘I
did not do
that.’

Maxwell
gazed about the cheerless panorama. Where was he? Still in
England
? Perhaps not. Was there somewhere
in the world where the sun looked like that?
Greenland
?
Iceland
?
Tierra del Fuego
?
Patagonia
?

Maxwell
sniffed the air. Did it smell like
England
? What did
England
smell like anyway? An American he’d once met had told him that
France
smelled of garlic and
Gauloise
and
England
smelled of stale beer
and boiled cabbage. Maxwell recalled that the American smelled of cheese, but
couldn’t remember why, although it had been explained to him at the time.

‘Wherever
I am, I have no wish to be here.’ Maxwell took half a step forward and fell on
his face. Tied boot laces again? It was far from amusing. Maxwell struggled
with his feet. They were literally grown over, knotted with ground weed and
stinkweed. He kicked and thrashed and fought himself free. Two dark dead
patches of soil remained to mark the spot where he had been standing. ‘I’m out
of here,’ said Maxwell.