by M T McGuire
“No thanks, I’ll stick to liquid food.” He felt at home here with Gladys, Ada and Their Trev. He liked them. They were kind and uncomplicated and they didn’t ask questions. He caught sight of his face in the mirror behind the bar. No scars as yet. After working for Big Merv’s organisation that was a surprise; he’d expected somebody to cut his head open sooner or later. He looked for any signs of fire damage. Hair? Check. Dark and tousled, it was standing up or out, depending whereabouts on his head it was situated. Nothing to do with the fire that one, it always looked like that. He liked his hair. He kept the sides and back shorter and the result was a spiky look, only naturally, without gel.
Eyebrows? Singed slightly. A smut on one cheek but otherwise, no apparent damage. As faces went, The Pan’s wasn’t bad: reasonable bone structure, straight nose – not too large – decent skin, expressive, attractive rather than out-and-out good looking, OK though.
Pity about the person behind it, who was a complete idiot. His assessing gaze turned into a glare of contempt. It wasn’t so much that he was unhappy with his personality; he just wished it belonged to somebody else.
For what felt like the millionth time, he unzipped the mental baggage at the back of his mind and had a good rummage through it. Why couldn’t he be less of a wazzock, on speaking terms with his father – not that there was anything he could do about that now – and good at something useful? Then he wouldn’t be a GBI and he could have applied for a real job, instead of working for Big Merv as a minor minion in the city’s biggest organised crime cartel.
He stopped looking at his reflection and turned his attention to his beer for a moment.
Further down the bar, Ada clucked about like a mother hen – a faded debutante in swathes of maroon chiffon, but a mother hen, nonetheless. She seemed convinced he needed somebody to look after him. When she next ducked through the door behind her, into the Holy of Holies where they kept the spare cutlery and did the washing up, Gladys glanced quickly in his direction and then followed her. They stood and spoke to one another privately for several minutes, but made the mistake of standing in front of the open door. He watched them carefully. His lip-reading skills were poor, but he could still work out the general gist of their conversation.
Chapter 6
“Don’t you go wasting yer sympathy on that one, Ada Maddox,” said Gladys, “it’s incredible he’s still alive. He won’t be for much longer, that’s for sure. Ain’t you heard?”
“What, dear?” asked Ada, putting down her tray and heading back into the crowded bar.
“Big Merv’s flats,” said Gladys, following her out into the bar and back into the Holy of Holies again, with a second tray, like some wizened harbinger of doom. “The whole lot was consumed in a huge conflag—conflag—fire.”
“I know. Wasn’t it terrible?”
“Yer. You know who were s’posed to be looking after ’em?” She jerked her head in The Pan’s direction.
“Was he?” Ada gazed over at the topic of their conversation, who was staring longingly at the crisp Humbert was still eating.
“Yer,” said Gladys and without actually making any sound, mouthed the words, “set it on fire with the chip pan, by mistake.”
“Oh bless him.”
“Yer. If he ain’t dead now he will be afore the week’s out. You mark my words.” Gladys patted the side of her nose with one finger and did her mouthing trick again. “He is a walking corpse.”
They exchanged glances, acknowledging a shared thought, which Ada eventually put into words.
“Surely ...?” Ada began but Gladys shook her head. “We are going to help him, aren’t we?” said Ada with a meaningful glance downwards at the floor, underneath which lay the cellar and their dark secret.
“Ner,” said Gladys, letting her guard slip and allowing some emotion to creep into her voice. “Not if we don’t want to get done in by Big Merv. ’S too dangerous.”
They sighed in unison.
“He’s only a boy, really,” said Ada.
“Yer,” said Gladys. “’S not right. ’S a crying shame.” And she went off to wash some glasses.
****
The Pan reflected that news travelled too fast in K’Barth.
Presently, Gladys and Ada re-appeared from the Holy of Holies. Gladys carried a large plate of cheese and pickle sandwiches, the bread sliced doorstep thick, which she handed solemnly to her friend. Ada handed them, with equal solemnity, to The Pan. Gladys hovered behind her. The pickle was Gladys’ secret recipe and famous for its virulent heat. A small teaspoonful could reduce grown men to tears. The Pan was also famous, among the clientele of the Parrot, for his ability to eat it in large quantities without medical assistance. Ada supposed it was only to be expected. He was from Hamgee, after all, and they were odd down there – they ate squid, even the tentacles.
“Leftovers, dear,” Ada said, even though he could see they were freshly made. “Waste not, want not. Be a pet and finish them up will you?”
“Yer,” said Gladys. “’S my pickle.”
“A gentleman ordered these an hour ago but when he tried them he found the flavour of the pickle a little overbearing,” said Ada.
“Ah. I see, you mean, he couldn’t make the cut?” asked The Pan.
“Yer, so you has to eat ’em,” said Gladys wagging her finger at him. “An’ don’t you go leaving them crusts.”
“No,” said Ada. “We won’t like it if you leave the crusts.”
“Would I do such a thing?” He adopted a mock-serious expression and picked up the first sandwich. The bread was still warm and he was so hungry it was all he could do not to drool or stuff the entire thing into his mouth at once.
“Yer, you would,” said Gladys, “you’d sell yer own grandmother an’ all.”
The Pan raised one eyebrow. It had taken him years of practice in front of the bathroom mirror to learn and it was one of the few things he considered he did well.
“Only if the price was right,” he said pointedly, taking his first bite of sandwich from the crust side. Gladys clearly viewed this with approval even though it meant most of the filling spilled out the other way, onto the bar.
“Do you have a grandmother?” began Ada, bending the limits of protocol. These days, you didn’t ask people about their relatives, not when the state tended to arrest them in the middle of the night and mislay them by the morning.
“I’m afraid I’ve already sold her,” he said, taking another bite of sandwich. He was distressed to notice that neither of the old ladies laughed. They must genuinely want to know. He managed to look Ada in the eye for a couple of milliseconds. He didn’t have much family – well he did, but they were officially Missing in Police Custody. In other words, they were in a labour camp somewhere, the salt mines, the ketchup farms or, most likely, dead. He gave the humorous approach one more try.
“Actually, I sold all my relations,” he said.
“Don’t be so crass, dear,” retorted Ada.
“Yer,” said Gladys.
“Mmm ...” He squinted at them thoughtfully and then turned his attention to the beer in his glass. He swilled it this way and that. “You really want to know, don’t you?” He glanced fleetingly up at them again.
They nodded.
“Why?”
There was an uncomfortable silence between the three of them but the old ladies continued to watch him expectantly.
“Alright,” he said slowly, “my guess is you’re wondering where to send my personal effects, should I have the misfortune to run into Big Merv.” Ada went puce with embarrassment.
“Put it like this, if they’re still alive (and I hope they are) they’ll be working very hard,” a questioning glance from the old ladies, “they’ll have joined the farming or mining communities.”
Had the penny dropped?
No.
Arnold in the skies, was he going to have to spell this out?
“You know, farming tomatoes or mining salt – as employees of the sta
te, on a strictly non-voluntary basis.”
Ah, now they’d caught up.
“There’s no forwarding address,” he added, “and if I were you, I wouldn’t get involved.”
The old ladies’ expressions were a combination of embarrassment and sympathy that made him downright uncomfortable. He couldn’t think of anything to say. They withdrew in tactful silence, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Then somebody put a heavy hand on The Pan’s shoulder.
Chapter 7
“Gotcha you little toerag.”
Yikes! It was Frank the Knife (no relation to Mac) one of Big Merv’s gang.
“Erk,” said The Pan, putting his hand in his pocket.
He took a deep breath and his panic subsided. He might be a wazzock but he was smarter than Frank and when it came to running away he was world class.
Big Merv had often remarked on The Pan’s mysterious ability to escape from the most dogged of pursuers and usually quipped about ‘rear-view mirrors’ or ‘eyes in the back of his head’. Big Merv didn’t know that The Pan literally did have eyes in the back of his head. They had grown, overnight, four years previously, when he was sixteen. He remembered it vividly because it had coincided with one of the Grongles’ purges.
The Grongolian hordes had invaded K’Barth, imprisoned the Architrave – the K’Barthan ruler – and seized power years before The Pan was born, though officially the country had operated as an affiliated principality rather than a fully annexed state. This particular ‘purge’ was aimed at ending the K’Barthans’ repeated attempts to establish home rule; or at least, a version of home rule which was different from that which the Grongles dictated. Anyone K’Barthan in a position of power was invited to ‘retire’ gracefully and those who didn’t were tried for treason and imprisoned or executed. The religious leaders disappeared in one way or another. Even the ones toeing the Grongolian party line, who had merely been watched and harassed until then, were imprisoned. The High Priest, who fiercely resisted any attempts to force his retirement, was killed in his snurd in a freak ‘accident’ – although everyone thought that his demise was engineered by the Grongolian security forces. Then, as life began to settle down again, the Grongles finally got round to actually chopping off the Architrave’s head.
He was probably the worst Architrave ever, little more than a puppet, but even so, he was K’Barth’s spiritual and temporal leader, ordained by Arnold the Holy Prophet and chosen by the priests. Putting him to death was a special kind of sacrilege. It should have been a step too far, but most K’Barthans preferred to stay alive and stay silent rather than complain and end up ... well ... like the Architrave. And anyway, with all the indigenous leaders gone, who in K’Barth would be brave or stupid enough to start a rebellion?
As far as The Pan was concerned, growing an extra pair of eyes had merely been the culmination of a vexing fortnight. At the time he had assumed it was all part of growing up and being Hamgeean. Naturally, he was far too reticent to discuss the puberty thing with his family and before they had a chance to notice of their own accord, the Grongles had come and carted them away. Being able to see in two directions at once had given him vertigo to start with, but after a while he’d grown used to it and stopped giving it a second thought. By the time he’d got over his embarrassment he had realised he was unique. No-one noticed the extra eyes under his hair, but to be doubly sure he often wore a hat. He didn’t want anyone to discover his secret in case he was branded a freak, or worse, in case it meant something.
“You’re coming with me,” Frank told him sternly. “Any funny business and you’re history, got it?”
It was hard for The Pan to play it cool as, in his pocket, his fingers closed round the reassuring form of Big Merv’s plastic, squeezy lemon.
Was it upright?
Yes.
Good. He flipped open the lid with his thumb and waited for the right moment. To annoy people like Frank the Knife went against every fibre of The Pan’s being. He was a major coward, top scorer on the yellow-o-meter every time. However, the only thing that outweighed The Pan’s cowardice was his overriding desire not to die – not yet at any rate. If he went with Frank, he would wind up at the bottom of the river
“OK. Let’s go. An’ I’m warning you. NO funny business,” said Frank.
“Yep.” He took a deep breath. It was now or never – and it wouldn’t be funny.
In one swift movement he yanked the lemon from his pocket and squeezed the contents over his shoulder. A jet of acidic juice hit Frank the Knife in the eye, causing him to bellow in pain and put one hand up to his face. The Pan felt Frank’s grip loosen, wriggled free and ran for the door.
****
“Oi!” shouted Smasher Harry, as the door caught him full in the face and The Pan leapt over his sprawling form and fled. He was supposed to be lying in wait outside to catch The Pan if he tried to escape.
“Stop him!” shouted Frank as they watched him accelerating up the street.
Smasher Harry whistled. “That kid can run.”
“Yeh,” said Frank. “Pity he’s such a jerk. We could use him.”
“Oi!” shouted Harry again, half-heartedly.
“Stop him!” shouted Frank into the silence.
“He stole my wallet,” added Harry with a flash of inspiration. His voice echoed along the empty street, but the only answer was the sound of The Pan’s receding footsteps. Never mind, they’d catch up with him before long. Finding the slippery little wretch wasn’t so hard – it was nabbing him that was tricky.
Frank’s leather trench coat creaked as he shrugged his shoulders.
“Pint?” he asked, holding the door open.
“Yer, don’t mind if I do. It’s a damp old night,” said Harry. He’d been standing out in the rain for ten minutes and he was soaked, despite the new mac he was wearing. He wished he’d worn his leather coat like Frank’s, but he’d seen the mac and felt like a change. He would have to find the hawker he bought it from and smash his face in. It was supposed to be waterproof. However, clearly this was only true if the water and the mac were in different countries. There was Frank, dry and snug and here was he, sodden. Git.
In the distance there was a strangled yelp and a noise. Shadadadumph, it went. Frank and Harry stopped and turned round. They had thumped enough people to know the sound of an unconscious body hitting the pavement when they heard it.
“You think the security forces have got him?” asked Frank sheepishly. Neither he nor Harry had any time for The Pan; they thought Big Merv should have dumped him in the river ages ago. All the same, being dumped in the river by the security forces was a different matter entirely. The Pan was a criminal like them; they were of one kind, they were family. Sure it was a psychotic, dysfunctional family and its members would die rather than spend time together – actually, they would die if they spent time together – but they were a family, nonetheless.
“Dunno,” said Harry.
The two of them waited to see what would happen. At the far end of the narrow street a figure appeared, silhouetted against the glare cast by the one and only street light. They watched it approach.
It was about six foot three and built like a truck, or at the least, like someone who worked out a lot – in this case, judging by the size of it, probably all day – only, unusually for the muscle-bound, it had a neck. Its extensive physique was partly concealed by the kind of expensive made-to-measure pinstriped suit which accentuated the contrast between the broad – very broad – shoulders and the slimmer waist. The result made it seem big and imposing without looking lumpy. Punching it would be like hitting an anvil, pointless and painful. On its feet it wore leather boots with zips at the side, and over the top of its suit, the ubiquitous leather trench coat like Frank’s, though these items, too, were clearly handmade. It wore a trilby hat because it had a pair of antennae which, even in K’Barth, was too memorable an attribute for a member of the underworld to sport openly. It didn’t have any hair
, except for its eyelashes and eyebrows; it was orange and clammy-looking and clearly in the mood to thump someone. It was Harry and Frank’s boss, Big Merv. The antennae and clammy skin were usual attributes for a Swamp Thing, the orange colouring was not. Swamp Things are green, but this is not something the wise mentioned to Big Merv, since he was unusually sensitive about the fact. Harry and Frank couldn’t help noticing the bulky object he was carrying slung over one shoulder.
Chapter 8
“Arnold’s Y-fronts! Can’t I trust you bungling idiots to do anything on yer own?” growled Big Merv the minute he was close enough to Frank and Harry to be heard. “You great pair of planks.”
He dropped The Pan on the ground in front of them and turned him onto his back with one foot. Big Merv had punched him hard and he was already showing the first signs of what was going to be a spectacularly black eye.
“Well?” he demanded. “What d’he do, thump you and make a run for it?”
Frank cleared his throat.
“Nah,” he said emphatically. “He squirted lemon juice in my eye and made a run for it, while Harry was out here dozing instead of actin’ backup.”
“I weren’t. It were dark and he’s bleedin’ quick.”
Big Merv nodded and prodded The Pan’s limp form with his other foot. There was no reaction. He was still out cold.
“He’s not so bleedin’ quick now is he? Arnold above! What did I do to deserve a pair of jokers like you two?” Frank and Harry shifted mutely from one foot to another. “Well?” asked Big Merv. “What you waiting for, the police? Pick him up and let’s get moving.”
“OK boss,” said Frank. “Go on then,” he said, nudging Harry who, grumbling and muttering, yanked their captive up by the arms and slung him over one shoulder. He was heavy, for a wimp, and Harry was annoyed; he was gasping for a drink. Now they’d have to take this unconscious wazzock back to the warehouse. Never mind, maybe they would get to chuck him in the river this time. Harry liked chucking people in the river; it was a rare treat.
