The Garden of Unearthly Delights

by Robert Rankin

‘Okay. Where were we?’

  ‘I have a plan.’ Maxwell helped the lad to his feet. ‘I will explain it to you in outline and I want you to do exactly what I tell you to do. Without question. Do you understand?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said William.

  And Maxwell spoke to William of his plan. He explained it all down to the finest detail and when he had done so, he asked what William thought.

  ‘I think it’s a blinder of a plan, Maxwell, and I will be happy to play my part in it.’

  ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll,’ said Maxwell. ‘Now let’s get it done.

  Alone marched Maxwell, down the last bit of the passage. He turned right at the end, marched into the foyer, passed the gift shop and marched on towards the reception desk.

  It was a bit hard to get all the makings of the University together. There was a lot of the old public school here, and in this foyer there was a great deal of the commercial enterprise also. T-shirts hung in the window of the gift shop. They had mottoes like ‘schooled at the University of Life’ on the front, and ‘Bullygarves do it backwards’.

  Maxwell marched up to the reception desk. A most attractive young woman sat behind it. She had golden ringlets, golden eyes and that look which says, ‘I know you’d love to, but you can’t.’

  ‘Good day,’ said Maxwell.

  The young woman sniffed. ‘I’ve got a cold,’ she said. ‘So I can’t breath through my nose.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘Why should you be sorry?’ the young woman asked. ‘You weren’t going to get any oral sex.’

  ‘I never asked for any,’ said Maxwell, somewhat bemused.

  ‘No, but it’s obvious that’s what you were hoping for.’

  ‘I never was.’

  ‘Of course you were. But you can’t have any. And that’s that.’

  ‘I want to see Count Waldeck,’ said Maxwell, squaring his shoulders.

  ‘He won’t give you any oral sex.’

  ‘I don’t want any oral sex. What is all this talk of oral sex?’

  ‘You started it.’

  ‘I didn’t. All I said was, good day.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not what you meant.’

  ‘It was. I just said, good day. That’s all.’

  ‘So you don’t want any oral sex?’

  ‘No,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘Why not?’ asked the receptionist. ‘Give me a good reason why a man wouldn’t want oral sex.’

  Maxwell scratched his head. ‘I can’t,’ he said.

  ‘So you do want it.’

  ‘Well. I like it.’

  ‘Well; you can’t have it. My nose is blocked up.’

  ‘Look,’ said Maxwell, ‘you are a very attractive woman. And were you to offer me oral sex, I would not refuse it. But that isn’t why I’m talking to you. I want to see Count Waldeck now. At this minute. Oral sex does not enter into it at all.’

  ‘Count Waldeck likes oral sex.’

  ‘I’m sure he does. Perhaps he and I will discuss it, at length.’

  ‘Well, leave me out of the discussion. I hate oral sex.’

  ‘So why do you keep talking about it?’

  ‘Well, it’s a comic device, isn’t it? You march up to the reception desk, bound upon some heroic mission, and you get side-tracked into a lot of old hooey about oral sex.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Maxwell, ‘I went through something similar to this a moment ago. I hope it doesn’t mean what I think it means.’

  ‘How may I help you, sir?’ asked the receptionist, suddenly prim, proper and correct.

  ‘I have an appointment to see Count Waldeck,’ said Maxwell. ‘Please direct me to his office.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do that.’

  ‘It is most urgent,’ said Maxwell. ‘I have something to deliver to the count. He will not be pleased to be kept waiting.’

  ‘You cannot see him, sir, and that is that.’

  ‘Send a messenger,’ said Maxwell. ‘Tell the count that MacGuffin the magician is here and that he has brought Aodhamm with him.’

  ‘Impossible,’ said the receptionist.

  ‘It’s not impossible,’ said Maxwell. ‘It’s vital. Just do it.’

  ‘I can’t, sir.’

  ‘And why can’t you?’

  ‘Because Count Waldeck is not here, sir. He has gone on his holidays.’

  ‘What?’ went Maxwell. ‘Gone on his holidays?’

  ‘His holidays, sir.’ The receptionist leafed through her desk diary. ‘I can fit you in for an appointment when he gets back. Which will be . . .’ She flicked pages forward. ‘In precisely nineteen days’ time.’

  ‘Nineteen days?’ Maxwell took one step back. Then took another.

  ‘Nineteen days,’ said the receptionist. ‘Do you want me to pencil you in?’

  22

  ‘Nineteen days?’ Maxwell dithered. That couldn’t be right. He hadn’t come this far just to find that the man he sought had gone on his holidays. That wasn’t the way things were done, with the epic confrontation due at any time.

  And everything.

  ‘Check the appointments diary again,’ said Maxwell. ‘You’ve made a mistake.’

  ‘A mistake about what?’ asked the young man behind the reception desk. Young man?

  Maxwell blinked at him. ‘Where did you come from?’ he asked. ‘What happened to the young woman I was just talking to?’

  The young man put a finger to his lips, then gestured to an area beneath the level of the counter (and that of his own waist). He offered Maxwell a knowing wink.

  ‘She’s not, is she?’ Maxwell leaned over the counter to view what was on the go beneath. ‘Good grief,’ he said, springing back. ‘I mean, well, good grief.’

  ‘How may I help you, sir?’ asked the young man, his eyes beginning to glaze.

  ‘I have an appointment to see Count Waldeck,’ said Maxwell. ‘I’m Mick Scallion, the engineer. It’s an emergency. Which way to the count’s office?’

  ‘You can’t see the count, he’s—’

  ‘Not gone on his holidays,’ said Maxwell. ‘I’m not having that.’

  ‘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. 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.

  ‘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. 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 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.

  ‘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 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 wi
de, yet low of ceiling. ‘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 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 outer-world with all memories of this place wiped away, saying, “The City of Rameer lies over yonder hill.” That’s what you do to them.’

  ‘I think you have it slightly wrong,’ said the count. ‘Sir John Rimmer perfected the Percussive Perlocution technique for drawing knowledge from the ether. At the age of ten the boys are brought here. They are given the choice, remain here, further their education and join the Knights of the Golden Grommet to patrol the borders of the grid as an extra degree of protection against the denizens of the red world. Or return to their parents.’