The Garden of Unearthly Delights

by Robert Rankin

  24

  Click. Click. Click, went the iron bands, slowly tightening up. ‘Aaaaagh!’ went Maxwell, as they slowly began to crush him to death.

  The count stepped back to view his handiwork. ‘It takes a few minutes. Hideously painful way to go, I’ll bet.’

  ‘I’ll bet it is,’ chuckled the shambling figure.

  The count turned smiling, but the smile fled his face of an instant. ‘Who are . . . ?’ You, was the word he didn’t manage. The shambling figure flung out a great hand, grasped him about the throat, flung out another and twisted Waldeck’s head around backwards. There was a really sickening crunching sound. Count Waldeck fell dead on the floor.

  Further such sounds were issuing from Maxwell’s chest. The shambling figure reached out, yanked up the lever and pressed a button.

  The bands unlocked and Maxwell collapsed to the floor.

  He awoke seconds later to a violent shaking. Opening his eyes, he cried, ‘Rushmear, it’s you.’

  ‘It’s me,’ said the horse trader.

  ‘But how?’ Maxwell’s eyes flashed round the room, flashed upon the body of the count, not two feet away.

  ‘Aaaagh!’ Maxwell struggled to his feet. ‘How did you—’

  William peeped out from behind a Rushmear trouser leg. ‘I went to get help,’ he said. ‘I found this man in the foyer. He said he knew you.’

  ‘Good lad, William. But how did you get here?’ Maxwell asked the saviour of his life.

  ‘I never left you, Maxwell. I figured that if anyone could find their way here, it would be you. So when I rode away on the dead knight’s horse, I just circled around and hid. I saw you put on the armour. I’ve been following you ever since, never more than a few hundred yards behind. First time ever I lost you was outside in the foyer. That bastard’, Rushmear gestured to the dead count, ‘led you all around the building, obviously to lose anyone who might have been following.’

  ‘Even the tiniest loose ends get tied up,’ said Maxwell. ‘Brilliant. That makes us almost even for the number of times I saved your life.’

  ‘I shall bear that in mind,’ said Rushmear, ‘once our souls are back in our bodies and I’m pummelling you to death.’

  ‘Quite so. Ah, excuse me, William?’

  ‘Er, yes?’ said the lad.

  ‘A small matter, regarding this dead man here. This dead man who was your grandad.’

  ‘Not a close-knit family,’ said William.

  ‘But you knew who was in charge of the University all along.’

  ‘Yes, but if I’d told you right off, it wouldn’t have been nearly so dramatic as having you find out for yourself.’

  Maxwell threw up his hands.

  ‘Where is Ewavett?’ Rushmear asked.

  ‘Boxed up in the basement.

  ‘Then let us fetch her.’

  ‘Not quite so fast. I have a plan.’

  ‘A pox on your plans,’ said Rushmear.

  Maxwell picked up the magic pouch and tucked it into his coat pocket. ‘MacGuffin may have got a number of things wrong about this place. He thought, for instance, that Sir John Rimmer had Ewavett—’

  ‘Sergio Rameer,’ William explained. ‘It’s a bit complicated. I wouldn’t worry about it.’

  ‘Then I won’t,’ said Rushmear.

  Maxwell continued, ‘But MacGuffin was right about one thing. A means exists to transport us back. An airship on the roof. That’s a flying craft, before you ask.’

  ‘Then let us fetch Ewavett and get on board.’

  ‘You know how to fly such a craft?’

  ‘No,’ said Rushmear.

  ‘But there is a pilot who does. Now what I propose we do is this.’

  A short while later, Rushmear, Maxwell and William left the study of the now defunct Count Waldeck. At Maxwell’s prompting, Rushmear had donned the count’s black habit, with the hood pulled well down to cover his face. Maxwell was once again wearing the suit of golden armour, and William, although he had protested that he too should be disguised as something, went as William.

  Of course he did know the way to the basement. And a short while after the short while later, they arrived at its very door.

  Rushmear pulled out the count’s ring of keys.

  ‘Open up the door then,’ said Maxwell, taking a step back.

  Rushmear hesitated. ‘It is possible’, said he, ‘that some trap might lie within.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Maxwell, who certainly had. ‘Best open it carefully then.’

  ‘I will not open it at all.’ Rushmear thrust the keys at Maxwell. ‘You will open it.’

  ‘Me? Must I forever pander to your timidity? When will you learn to behave like a man?’

  ‘What?’ roared Rushmear, going as ever for the throat.

  ‘Clunk!’ went a golden gauntlet on his still so tender nose.

  ‘Stop it, you two.’ William stepped up and pushed open the door. ‘It’s never locked.’

  ‘See,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘Huh,’ said Rushmear.

  The light from a few small windows fell upon crates and packing cases, rusty suits of armour, dilapidated mechanisms and cardboard boxes containing those Top of the Pops compilation albums that you never saw in the shops but which are always there by the dozen at bootsales. Rushmear began to crash and smash amongst the crates and cases.

  ‘Have a care,’ said Maxwell. ‘We don’t want to damage Ewavett.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn, as it happens.’

  Maxwell sighed and began to search.

  William said, ‘I think you’ll find she’s over here.’

  Maxwell sighed once more and followed William.

  The crate was long and coffin-shaped. It was a coffin, in fact.

  ‘Let’s have the lid off,’ said Rushmear, pushing forward.

  Maxwell tried to hold him back. ‘MacGuffin will hardly part with our souls if we bring her to him in pieces.’

  ‘All right.’ The big man applied his strength to the coffin lid. He strained and groaned and inch by inch it came away to fall with a bang to the floor.

  Maxwell peeped into the coffin and gasped. ‘By the Goddess,’ he whispered. ‘It is the Goddess.’

  William peeped in and gave a wolf whistle.

  ‘Let me see,’ Rushmear looked in and he too gave a gasp. ‘So beautiful,’ said he.

  And beautiful she was. So beautiful to look at that it hurt. A golden goddess, naked, on a cushion of black velvet. Her slender hands crossed between her perfect breasts. Her lovely face, composed as if in sleep, bore an expression of such sadness, Maxwell felt a lump come to his throat and had to turn his face away.

  ‘Put back the coffin lid,’ he said.

  Rushmear reached in a hand to touch the golden sleeping beauty.

  ‘No,’ cried Maxwell. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It isn’t right. It just isn’t.’

  ‘Huh!’ Rushmear took up the coffin lid. ‘She’s only a toy.’

  ‘She’s much more than that. Fasten the lid, we will put the entire coffin into MacGuffin’s pouch.’

  Rushmear beat the lid down with a mighty fist, then with Maxwell’s help, slid the coffin into the magic pouch.

  ‘I’ll take this,’ said Rushmear, snatching the pouch from Maxwell’s hands.

  ‘All right,’ Maxwell said. ‘You take it.’

  ‘All right? You give up the pouch without a struggle?’

  ‘I’m sure it will be safe with you.’

  ‘Have no fear for that. I’ll guard it with my life until we return to MacGuffin.’

  ‘Then you’ll die so doing,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘Aha,’ Rushmear sprang back. ‘You mean to kill me for it.’

  ‘Nothing of the kind. If you attempt to carry the pouch back through the grid you will be shredded. We only need it to transport the coffin as far as the airship. Once the coffin is unloaded on board we would do well to fling the pouch over the side. It will have served i
ts purpose.’

  ‘Hmph,’ went Rushmear. ‘But, of course, this was my intention all along.’

  ‘I’m so pleased to hear it. So, shall we depart?’

  ‘Yes indeed.’

  The journey from the basement to the roof was quite uneventful. Clearly none of the students knew yet of Count Waldeck’s demise, and as Rushmear stomped along with his hood well down, they saluted him and wished him good day.

  Maxwell’s nerves were somewhat on edge. There was the matter of the count’s guards. But it was probable that with the count deceased, his magic had died with him and his guards dissolved away.

  There was also, of course, the matter of those rampaging animals. What exactly had become of them?

  Maxwell hurried along behind Rushmear. William hurried along behind Maxwell.

  Up a final staircase they went, through a small door and onto the uppermost roof of the University.

  And here they found the airship.

  Maxwell whistled through his visor. A thing of wonder it truly was. And an airship was truly the word. For there stood a vast cigar-shaped blimp secured by many ropes to what appeared to be the hull of a Spanish galleon. From the stern of this projected a number of long metal shafts with fan blades on the ends.

  A dull throb of pistons issued from the craft. Smoke rose from a variety of funnels that poked through the foredeck. Anchoring lines held fast to metal rings bolted to the roof.

  ‘And that will fly?’ Rushmear asked.

  Maxwell scratched his helmet. ‘I agree it does look somewhat unlikely.’

  ‘Let’s get on board,’ said William.

  Maxwell looked down at the lad. ‘Ah,’ said he.

  ‘Ah?’ William asked.

  Maxwell lifted his visor. ‘You’re not coming with us,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I want you to stay here until I get back.’

  ‘And what if you don’t get back?’

  ‘Exactly. Things are likely to become rather unpleasant when we meet up with MacGuffin again. I don’t want any harm to come to you.’

  ‘Things could become rather unpleasant here also.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Maxwell. ‘But there it is.’

  ‘You heartless bastard.’

  ‘Soul-less bastard. I’m sorry, William,’ Maxwell reached out a gauntleted hand, the lad took his shoulder beyond its reach.

  ‘Stuff you then,’ said William.

  ‘Oh don’t be like that. I can’t take you. It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ muttered Rushmear.

  ‘Yes. All right.’

  Maxwell followed the big man up the gang plank. At the top he turned back to offer a wave. But William had gone.

  ‘Damn it,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘Welcome aboard, My Lord Count,’ said a chap in a seaman’s uniform. ‘And good day to you too, Sir Knight.’

  ‘Good day,’ said Maxwell, lowering his visor.

  ‘Take us to the village of MacGuffin as fast as you can,’ ordered Rushmear.

  ‘You’re voice sounds terrible gruff,’ said the skyman.

  ‘I’ve a sore throat, now get a damn move on.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The skyman blew a whistle. Other skymen scurried onto the deck and began busying themselves at the ropes which held down the airship.

  ‘Let’s have the coffin out,’ said Rushmear.

  ‘Right.’

  They slid the coffin out onto the deck.

  ‘Prepare for lift-off,’ called the skyman, blowing his whistle once more.

  ‘Sling the pouch over the side,’ said Rushmear.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Lift off,’ called the skyman, as the airship began to rise.

  ‘Oh, Maxwell,’ said Rushmear.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Just this,’ Rushmear leapt forwards and pushed Maxwell over the ship’s rail. ‘As with the pouch, you have served your purpose,’ he called to the falling figure. ‘I will send your regards to MacGuffin. Farewell.’

  25

  They say that anger begins with folly and ends with repentance.

  It’s funny what they say.

  Maxwell didn’t think it funny. But then Maxwell was angry. He was very angry. And his anger, which had indeed begun with folly, did not look like ending with repentance.

  A heart attack possibly, but not repentance.

  The fall had knocked the breath from him, but he was otherwise unscathed. Now he raged about the rooftop like a madman. He tore off items of golden armour, flung them down and kicked them all around. He came upon MacGuffin’s pouch and stamped on it again and again and again.

  Then he realized that he had stamped the Max Carrion outfit to oblivion, having thoughtlessly neglected to remove it from the pouch before he did the even more thoughtless flinging of the pouch from the airship.

  This raised Maxwell to even greater heights of anger and fury.

  He shook his fists and fired off volleys of abuse towards the receding airship. As a berserker he gnashed his teeth and growled and scowled and screamed.

  Bilious, he was. Wrathful, stung, incensed. Fuming, boiling, rampageous.

  Cross.

  Very cross.

  Very angry. Very cross.

  Maxwell threw himself down on the rooftop, thrashed his legs and drummed his fists. And howled and howled and howled.

  It was all too much, it really was. He’d got this far just to lose the lot. And to a horse trader. A bloody horse trader! He, Max Carrion, Imagineer, bested by a bloody horse trader!

  Maxwell ceased his wrathful thrashings. He, the Imagineer! What a fine joke that was. He with his high thoughts and his grand schemes. He’d achieved nothing. He was nothing. Since he’d been dumped onto this future world, what had he done? Caused a lot of grief and misery and chaos, that’s what.

  Maxwell groaned and moaned, now bitter with remorse and regret.

  Still, they do say that anger begins with folly and ends with repentance, don’t they?

  ‘I shall kill myself,’ declared Maxwell. ‘I am a useless no-mark. I shall end it all.’

  He sprang to his feet, kicked off his remaining armour, stalked over to the parapet of the roof and climbed on to it. ‘Goodbye, cruel worlds,’ he said, preparing to take the ultimate plunge.

  And he would have done it too.

  But a mighty cheer rose up to greet him.

  Maxwell tottered and gazed down. Below, in the quadrangle, stood hundreds of people: little lads in grey, big lads in grey, chaps in cricket whites, masters in gowns and mortar boards, knights in golden armour. They waved their hands at him and cheered again.

  ‘Max-well,’ they went. ‘Max-well.’

  Maxwell gawped. ‘What?’

  ‘Three cheers for our deliverer,’ cried someone.

  ‘Hip hoorah. Hip hip hoorah. Hip hip hip—’

  ‘Deliverer?’ asked Maxwell, shaking a bewildered head.

  ‘Hoorah.’

  ‘Deliverer!’ Maxwell swayed on the parapet. ‘Deliverer!’ He rather liked the sound of that.

  ‘Speech,’ cried someone else. ‘Speech from the slayer of the evil count.’

  ‘Ah.’ Maxwell’s brain went, Click-click-click. Slayer of the evil count. They were cheering him as the hero. He, Max Carrion, count-slayer and heroic deliverer. Yes!

  Now, of course Maxwell knew full well that he hadn’t really slain the evil count. It was Rushmear who had done the actual slaying. But then, Rushmear had done the dirty on Maxwell and flown off with Ewavett. So Rushmear wasn’t here to take any of the credit. And, after all, if Maxwell hadn’t found his way to the University, then Rushmear could never have followed him here and slain the evil count. So Maxwell could really be considered to be the slayer of the evil count. By proxy.

  So it wouldn’t really be wrong if he took all the credit.

  Would it?

  ‘My dear friends,’ called Maxwell, all thoughts of suicide forgotten. ‘My dear friends, I—’ And then
he lost his footing and fell off the roof.

  ‘Aaaaaaaaaagh!’ went Maxwell. ‘Not fair . . . I . . . oh!’

  A firm hand shot out from a window he was passing by at speed and caught him by the ankle. Gripped it tight. Drew him to safety.

  ‘Oh,’ went Maxwell. ‘Oh,’ and ‘Oww.’

  And then he was dropped on a carpeted floor. ‘Ouch,’ he said, then, ‘by the—’

  ‘Goddess?’ asked Sir John Rimmer, beaming down at him.

  ‘Goddess,’ agreed Maxwell, wondering up. The ancient barber was no longer ancient. And barber no longer was he. Sir John wore his suit of bottle green velvet. His horn-rimmed spectacles were perched on his hatchet nose. The beard of wispy white was rich and red and marvellous to view.

  ‘You are young,’ croaked Maxwell.

  ‘Not as young as once I was, but all the better now the spell that kept me old and daft is dead.’

  ‘I’ll try to work that one out,’ said Maxwell. ‘Thank you for saving my life.’

  ‘Thanks for restoring mine. But come now, you have much to do.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘You do.’ Sir John helped Maxwell to his feet. ‘They’ll probably want to carry you shoulder-high about the quad. Then there’s bound to be a feast and you’ll have to make a proper speech. Then there’ll be the awarding of some honorific title and swearing you in as a life-long fellow of the University. Then—’

  ‘Er, Sir John,’ Maxwell made a guilty face, ‘there’s something I think you ought to know.’

  ‘Do you mean like the fact that it was really Rushmear who killed Count Waldeck?’

  ‘Yes. But how did you—’

  ‘I told him.’ William’s face appeared, from behind a green velvet trouser leg this time. ‘But then, as I explained to Sir John, if you hadn’t found your way here to the University, then Rushmear could never have followed you and done the actual slaying of the count. Logically, in the absence of Rushmear, you are the slayer by proxy.’

  ‘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.’