Working Wonders (16 page)

Arthur jumped up immediately. ‘If you want to talk like that to her, I recommend you remember the last time you and I met!’

Ross took a pace backwards, but Dave stood where he was. Ross wasn’t finished. He looked pointedly at Fay, then back to Arthur.

‘Nice to know you’re still doing your ex-girlfriend. Have a good time on Tuesday night, then?’

Gwyneth stared at Arthur in horror, as Fay rose and stood next to Ross, who took her hand. ‘Thanks for all the info,
mate
.’

‘What … what are you talking about?’ Arthur couldn’t take in the unfolding nightmare.

‘Took that job at Slough, didn’t I? Me and Fay here. Or didn’t she tell you?’

Arthur stood stock still.

‘Magic ice!’ Dave was still snorting as they left the bar.

‘You see,’ said Sven patiently, ‘what you’re supposed to do is sleep with them and get information from
them
. Haven’t you ever seen any James Bond films?’

‘But I didn’t
know
she was working for him,’ said Arthur in anguish, for the nineteenth time. It was much later. Everyone hated him. ‘And anyway, it won’t be too bad, will it? I mean, either he can copy us and we can tell people it was our idea first …’

‘
Lame-oh
,’ said Sven.

‘Yeah, okay. Or, he can do something different so it doesn’t matter.’

‘No,’ said Gwyneth, shaking her head. ‘That’s not it at all. He can tell the local newspapers. Launch a rubbishing campaign. Speak to local councillors and the people who are meant to be okaying the project. Misinform local environmentalists, so they start campaigning against us.’

Her face looked dull. Inside her head, neon lights were flashing: ALL MEN – THE SAME! ALL MEN – THE SAME! at her in a way that was hard to ignore. ‘There’s plenty he can do. We might as well just give up and go home.’

Suddenly, Rafe spoke up. ‘You’re telling me we can’t beat that delinquent dwarf prick? Just because he’s heard one or two things we
might
be getting up to? Bullshit! We should hardly even worry about it. Actually, we should get Arthur to sleep with that girl again and this time feed her false information.’

‘No, we shan’t be doing that,’ said Arthur.

‘Well, okay. But for goodness’ sake – this is only one tiny little problem. What’s in Slough, for God’s sake?’

Everyone shrugged.

‘Exactly. If he had to make the trip all the way over here just to tell us that – they must be terrified, right?’

Sven shrugged.

‘I mean, they haven’t a clue what to do so all they can do is slag off and try and intimidate us.’

‘I agree with Rafe,’ said Cathy, unsurprisingly.

‘What else is there to do?’ said Marcus.

‘Slowly try to resurrect the ashes of my career,’ said Gwyneth. ‘If I still have one. Night, everyone.’

And she got up and left the bar, nodding at everyone but ignoring Arthur blatantly. Arthur sighed. Well, at least he wouldn’t have to pretend to know how to ride a horse.

‘Another round?’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ said Sven. ‘But try not to sleep with anyone and spill all our secrets on the way over.’

The next morning, Arthur knew as soon as he stepped out of the car that it wasn’t going to be good. Gwyneth swept past him across the windy tarmac without giving him as much as a glance.

‘Look … Gwyneth … I’m really sorry.’

She turned round shortly. ‘It doesn’t matter. Only weeks of work down the drain, not to mention however much money and – God, even just to feel there was something going on in the office, in the world …’ She shrugged.

‘It’s not over, okay? You heard what Rafe said last night. It’s my project anyway, and I say it’s not over.’

‘You can say what you like.’ Gwyneth marched past the temp. ‘It doesn’t change a thing. Look what you’ve done to morale, to motivation … Arthur, I can’t even tell you how serious that is.’

Rafe came running up to them through the double doors. ‘Come quickly!’

‘What?’

‘Just – just come!’ He was smiling. Gwyneth squinted, but they both followed him into the boardroom. The others were standing around, also all grinning broadly.

‘What is it?’ Arthur reached the doorframe and saw what the others were looking at. He gasped too.

Gwyneth was already kneeling down in front of it. ‘It’s perfect,’ she breathed.

It had arrived that morning from the maze man. It was the scaled mock-up of their maze, complete with little plastic – although amazingly realistic-looking – hedges, on the kind of grass that comes with model railway stations. You could take your fingers and run through it, and around it was everything there should be – the road, the car park. It was so realistic you could almost see the figures move.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Gwyneth. ‘The paper model was something, but this …’

‘This,’ announced Sven proudly, ‘is the absolute SHITS!’

‘Nicely put,’ said Arthur, but it was undeniable that the model was beautiful. If you caught sight of it out of the corner of your eye, you could swear the tiny bushes actually moved in the wind.

Gwyneth picked up the letter that had come with it. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘We still have to choose what to put in the middle of it.’

‘What about Ross’s head on a stake?’ said Arthur.

‘I think, a very large statue of Sandwiches,’ said Sven. Sandwiches woofed appreciatively.

Marcus looked at the letter pensively. ‘You could put an enormous pile of burning money. Then it would match the rest of the project.’

Gwyneth looked at it and shook her head. ‘No, it needs something really special. Something beautiful. There aren’t enough beautiful things in Coventry. But we’ll find one.’

‘And if that doesn’t get us planning permission, I’ll eat my pyjamas,’ said Sven.

The model seemed to have lifted people into a positive mood again, even if it was temporary. Arthur tried to catch Gwyneth’s eye, but she was having none of it.

‘That’s great,’ he said. ‘It feels like we’re moving! Now, the ice festival – Sven, where are we with the nitrogen people?’

Sven grinned again. ‘Good news. They won’t say it’s
impossible
.’

Arthur waited. ‘… And?’

‘What do you mean, “and”? Isn’t that brilliant?’

‘Sven, pig heart transfusion is possible, but that doesn’t mean it is in the
Yellow Pages
.’

‘You are boring. Anyway, they told us to go visit them.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Milton Keynes. Largest indoor ski slope in the world. They do fake snow, ice, you name it.’

‘As long as it’s snow and ice,’ said Gwyneth.

‘Well, yeah. But they sounded excited.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Arthur. ‘If the most they’ve ever done is an ice rink and a small ski slope, a river is going to be something of a challenge. Is this a big company, or two blokes in a hut drinking mugs of tea and shredding polystyrene really quickly?’

‘They just said it was possible,’ said Sven, ‘that’s all I know, okay? Right. Do you want me to go and investigate the pig heart thing now?’

‘No,’ said Arthur. ‘Just leave all that for now. Rafe?’

Rafe was waving excitedly. ‘Look,’ he said. He brought out a series of photographs of the tops of the houses of Kingsland Avenue. ‘I went and took these at the weekend. Here’s what I thought we’d do – go to each household and ask them if they want to be a part of this thing.’

‘Which of course they will,’ said Gwyneth drily.

‘Yeah,’course they will. Anyway, when they’ve said yes, we do this.’

He took out another sheet of paper, onto which the outlines of the houses in the photographs had been carefully traced. Around the rooftop drainpipes of each house were large fairy lights, making it look as if a Christmas wreath had been stretched the length of the street, illuminating the unusual gabling, Tudor-panelled windows and intricate chimneys. In each window – one for each house – a lamp was gleaming.

‘What’s that?’ said Gwyneth, looking at the picture.

‘This is what I’m thinking,’ said Rafe. We get everyone to string lights like this, right, so it doesn’t go in their windows or anything.’

‘Apart from the people who steal them,’ said Arthur.

‘And the people who have dogs and their dogs sometimes eat light bulbs if they’re in a bad mood because they’re not allowed to have chicken bones,’ said Sven.

‘Okay, well, let’s worry about that in a minute,’ said Rafe, uncharacteristically terse. ‘Then, we ask them if they want to shine a light in their main windows too.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, first off, most people’s bedrooms won’t be facing the road, will they? That’d be stupid.’

Arthur nodded.

‘Anyway, it’s just a gentle light. Really soft lighting, like an oil lamp.’

‘Why?’ said Gwyneth.

‘Well, because it’s comforting, for starters. It feels welcoming. But also, if it’s symmetrical – look. It will lead people’s eyes up … here.’

He turned over the page, and it was rows of dark streets, all leading up to the same focal point – the ring road. At each junction, Rafe had drawn a little forest of lights – lamp-posts close together, giants, wrought-iron period pieces, normal street-sized ones – it looked like a bouquet of lamp-posts growing out of sheer concrete. It was bizarrely beautiful.

‘Can you spell “crash risk”?’ said Gwyneth.

‘No, but look,’ said Rafe. ‘With the strings of lights along the tops of the houses … from the air …’ He opened another page of his sketch book, ‘… The ring road will look like a star.’

It was true. In the shot from above, the clusters and delicate outward fronds looked like a giant star, or sun. Or jellyfish, thought Arthur, but he had to concede it was very pretty.

‘So, it’s what … a landing strip for birds?’ said Sven, studying the picture from several angles.

‘No, it’s just what people will see when they fly over. It’ll be visible from planes. It’ll be amazing! People will want to go up to high places just to see it!
And
it won’t be that expensive.’

‘See,’ said Sven, ‘if you’d let me have that swearword in the maze we could have killed two birds with one stone and just lifted people up on a big crane or something.’

‘Yes, well, having even more cranes in Coventry might come across as counterproductive,’ said Arthur. ‘Rafe, it’s great. And it looks like it might not be too dear. Check out it’s not going to kill anyone in the manner of bogus lighthouses. Then some lucky team is going to get to start sounding out the residents …’

Rafe’s face lit up like one of his thousands of light bulbs. ‘Cool!’

Arthur couldn’t help half-smiling to himself. He looked over at Gwyneth.

She sniffed at him, and stared furiously at the plans.

‘Okay, well, great!’ said Arthur, pretending he hadn’t just been snubbed really badly. I guess the next thing we have to do is get ready for the planning committee … with this …’

You couldn’t help but smile when you looked at the model of the maze.

Ross sighed as he rolled up his trouser leg. Going to these bloody meetings was bloody boring – let’s face it, most of the Black Knights were hopeless bloody snobs, only joining their pathetic so-called secret society to get away from the wife, to try and make a few business contacts or to get their kids off minor drug offences by hanging out with the chief constable – but in this case, needs must. All senior councillors in the area, practically, were members. At least, the powerful ones were. Gave them a social life – no-one else would want to go anywhere near them, if they didn’t have to by virtue of being blood and brotherhood.

For Ross, it was a good chance to get pissed up, have a bit of a chat with that chappy from the planning committee, and, more importantly, get the press on his side. However, he was utterly dreading tonight – tonight was initiation night, and it wasn’t going to be pleasant. He walked into the room and looked round disdainfully. He was in the crypt-like cellar of a large hall in the centre of Slough. Men stood quietly in a circle, dressed in masks and ceremonial robes and holding up blazing torches. They were silent, waiting for him.

‘Step forward the one they call Mawdryn,’ said the central figure, whose robe had slightly more fancy gold on it than the others.

Ross slouched forward.

‘Kneel!’

Ross half-smirked and got down on one knee. The man, his eyes blazing – which was odd, thought Ross, as he secretly knew him to be the editor of the local paper, and a lazy fat old sod at the best of times – leaned forward, to impress the seriousness of the occasion on him.

‘Do you, Ross Mawdryn, seek to enter the hallowed halls of the Black Knights?’

‘Yeah,’ said Ross.

‘Yes, oh Grand Vizier,’ said the editor, slightly brusquely.

‘What?’

‘You have to say, “yes, oh Grand Vizier”.’

‘Oh. Yes, oh Grand Vizi – blah blah blah.’

The men were circling him now, holding the torches high and mumbling incantations in low voices, their shadows high on the cellar walls.