The Garden of Unearthly Delights

by Robert Rankin

  ‘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 drunk as a lord, 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 in big big trouble.’

  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 sex 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 fash
ionable 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-PHASE 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.

  Maxwell also took a deep breath. He climbed down from Black Bess, tied her reins to a hitching post, pushed open the front gate and marched up MacGuffin’s garden path.

  The milk bottles were still on the step, but Maxwell supposed that this was not because MacGuffin was asleep. He took another big breath, squared up before the front door and then knocked a great knock on the knocker.

  A moment passed. And then a moment more.

  Maxwell stood a-trembling. And then he knocked again.

  Another moment passed and then a window flew open above.

  MacGuffin stuck his big red head out. ‘Who dares disturb me from my business?’ he shouted.

  Maxwell took a step back and rolled up his eyes. The evil one glared down upon him. The pig’s bladder face with its beady black eyes was contorted with rage. Maxwell saw that the golden nose-ring was gone. The count’s magic had truly died with him.

  ‘Who the devil’s arse-wipe are you?’ demanded MacGuffin.

  Maxwell stared him eye to evil eye. Hatred roared through Maxwell’s brain. The red mist, that powerful symptom of his soulless state, blurred his vision. Maxwell’s mouth was dry, but he steeled his nerves and drew in another breath. ‘Good day to you, sir,’ boomed Maxwell. ‘I am The Honourable Eddie Von Wurlitzer, Duke of Earl, and I would have a moment of your time.’

  ‘You would what?’ roared MacGuffin.

  ‘A matter of great urgency. You are the master of this squalid little village, I presume.’

  ‘And much more now besides.’ MacGuffin drew in his head and slammed shut the window.

  Maxwell stepped forward and applied himself once more to the knocker.

  The window flew open again. ‘Away with you!’ bawled MacGuffin. ‘Or I’ll cast a spell of scorpions at your scrotum.’

  Maxwell held his ground. ‘If it please you,’ he said politely, ‘I am the emissary of his magnificence, The Sultan of Rameer.’

  ‘The Sultan of Rameer?’ MacGuffin cocked his big head on one side. ‘Wait there a minute. I’m coming down.’

  Maxwell waited, nerves jingle-jangling. The front door opened and MacGuffin stood there, filling up most of the opening. He stood in huge and horribleness, a monstrosity made flesh and made from plenty of it. He wore nothing but a red string vest and a pair of unspeakable red Y-fronts. Maxwell viewed with revulsion the bulge of a stiffy in MacGuffin’s underpants.

  But not a particularly big one.

  MacGuffin glared at Maxwell.

  And Maxwell stared right back at him.

  He was now once more face to face with the beast who had taken his soul. Maxwell chewed upon his bottom lip and fought with the terrible compulsion to leap at the magician and tear out his heart. A compulsion which would surely end with a word or two of magic and Maxwell’s hideous death.

  MacGuffin struggled into a red satin dressing-gown, garishly adorned with lime green silhouettes of well-hung men and fat-bottomed girls splitting the old bamboo. He knotted the sash about his wandering waistline and glared further glares towards Maxwell. ‘This better be very important,’ he said.

  ‘Oh it is,’ grunted Maxwell. ‘It very much is.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  MacGuffin led Maxwell through the hall. Its walls were made gay by numerous paintings of sparsely clad women who displayed an unseemly fondness for their dogs. Maxwell turned down his eyes from them and chewed once more on his lip.

  In order to conceal his tremblings, Maxwell took to blundering about. Making flamboyant gestures and bluff swaggering movements. He bumbled after MacGuffin, knocking into things and generally making a nuisance of himself.

  ‘Be careful.’ MacGuffin raised a big fist. ‘My collection is priceless. If you damage one single item, I will boil your cods in cockroach oil.’

  Maxwell moved a little more carefully.

  MacGuffin led him through the room of obscene animals, down the hall of obscene statuary, up the sweeping staircase and into the wonderful circular room, with its incredible trompe-l’oeil ceiling and its crystal-topped table with the incr
edibly obscene centre support.

  MacGuffin indicated a knackered old bentwood chair which stood by an open window. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ he said.

  ‘I would prefer to stand.’

  ‘As you wish.’ MacGuffin seated himself in his big red throne-like chair and drummed his fingers on the table top.

  Maxwell glanced about the high-domed room. He could not see the cabinet of souls, but he could feel its nearness, almost as if it called to him. Of Ewavett and Aodhamm there was no sign, but Maxwell knew MacGuffin would have them in some safe and private place.

  As for Rushmear the horse trader. If Maxwell had been a betting man, he would have wagered all the money he had, that the big man’s corpse now lay in MacGuffin’s cellar, possibly pickling, prior to the removal of its skin for mounting in the mage’s under-stairs collection. And if Maxwell had got good odds and had any money to wager, he’d have really cleaned up on that one.

  ‘Hurry now.’ MacGuffin’s big fat fingers went drum drum drum. ‘Tell me what you want.’

  ‘As I said, I am the emissary of the Sultan of Rameer.’

  ‘And how is the dear Sultan?’ MacGuffin asked. ‘In the best of health, I trust.’

  ‘On the contrary. He is quite dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ MacGuffin feigned a face of abject sorrow. ‘How did this happen? An accident perhaps.’

  ‘An assassination,’ said Maxwell. ‘By a hired killer named Rushmear.’

  ‘Rushmear?’ MacGuffin shook his great head. ‘I have never heard of such a man.’

  ‘And why should you have? Rushmear escaped in one of the Sultan’s many flying ships. We followed him to this very village.’

  ‘We?’ MacGuffin asked.

  ‘Myself and a legion of one thousand knights who now surround the village.’

  MacGuffin glanced towards the open window.

  ‘Masters of camouflage,’ Maxwell told him. ‘Now obviously I have no wish to lay waste to the village and slaughter all its inhabitants, if this can possibly be avoided. And I doubt that you’d appreciate a hundred or so hairy-arsed knights rampaging amongst your collection. So it’s imperative we capture this Rushmear as soon as possible and disarm the dangerous device he absconded with.’