Year of the Griffin

by Diana Wynne Jones

  “Can’t annoy me,” said the Goon. “No one has yet.” He must have gone on thinking about this while Howard was leading the way down the side passage into Upper Park Street. It was getting dark by then. The Goon’s head seemed to get lost upward in the dusk. When Howard looked up, he could hardly see anything beyond the Goon’s wide leather shoulders. “Funny,” the Goon’s voice came down. “Never been really angry. Wonder what would happen if I was.”

  “I shudder to think!” Fifi said, more faintly than ever. “Howard, would you like to hold my other hand?”

  Howard was going to refuse indignantly. But it dawned on him in time that Fifi was scared stiff. So was he. When he took her hand in what was supposed to be a comforting grip, his hand was as cold and shaking as Fifi’s. Joined in a line, they turned right and walked the short distance to the Poly. It could have been a shorter distance still, but Fifi took one look at the empty spaces of the park, and another, shuddering, at the gathering dark in Zed Alley and took the longer way around by the road and in through the main gate of the Poly.

  By the time they got there bright strip lights were on in most of the windows of the Poly, and the forecourt, where the diggers were at work excavating for the new building, was well lit, too. There were a lot of people about, students hurrying home and men working on the site. It should have felt safe. But the Goon still had hold of Awful’s hand, and none of them felt safe. Fifi cast longing looks at several people she knew, but she did not dare call out for help. Howard twitched at her hand, trying to tell her that they could give the Goon the slip inside the building. They could go up in the elevator, down the stairs, through the fire doors, up in the other elevators, and shake him off in the crowds. Then they could phone the police.

  They went up the steps into the litter of paper cups in the foyer. Howard turned toward the elevators.

  “Don’t be too clever,” the Goon said. “Know where you live.”

  Howard turned around and looked up at him. The distant small face held the usual grin, but just for an instant, before Howard looked clearly, it did not look quite as daft as he had thought. In fact, he could have sworn the Goon looked almost clever. But when Howard looked properly, he realized that it was just a sort of slyness. That was bad enough. Howard changed direction and led them all up the stairs instead, to the room where Dad usually did his teaching.

  Dad was there. They heard his voice from behind the door, raised in a yell. “Good heavens, woman! I don’t want to know what the Structuralists think! I want to know what you think!”

  Dad sounded busy. Howard raised one hand to knock at the door, but the Goon reached a long arm around him and tore the door open. Inside, there was a row of people sitting in metal chairs and holding note pads. They all turned irritably to look at the door. Quentin Sykes, propped on the back of another metal chair, turned around as irritably as the rest. He was smallish and fattish and barely came up to the Goon’s armpit. But, as Howard knew, you could rely on Dad not to panic. Quentin went on looking at them irritably and raked his hands through the rather fluffy remains of his hair, while he took in the Goon, Howard’s and Fifi’s scared faces, and Awful’s angry glower.

  He turned back to his students. “Well, that about wraps it up for today,” he said smoothly. “We’ll save the Structuralist view for next week. Come in, all of you, and shut the door—you’re making a draft. I think we’ll ask Miss Potter to introduce next week’s discussion, since she obviously knows so much about Structuralism.” At this the thinnest woman with the largest note pad sat upright and stared in outrage. “The rest of you,” Quentin Sykes said, before she could speak, “had better read these books in order to keep up with Miss Potter.” And he rapidly recited a list of books. While the students, including Miss Potter, scribbled them down, Quentin took another look at the Goon. “See you all next week,” he said.

  The students took a look at the Goon, too, and all decided to leave quickly. Everyone hurried out of the room, except for Miss Potter, who was still looking outraged. “Mr. Sykes,” she said. “I really must complain—”

  “Next week, Miss Potter. Put it all in your paper,” Quentin said. “Show me how wrong I am.”

  Miss Potter, looking more outraged than ever, squared her shoulders and marched out of the room. Howard hoped that Dad would be able to get rid of the Goon this easily, too.

  “Now what is this?” Quentin said, looking at the Goon.

  “Meet the Goon, Dad,” said Howard.

  The Goon grinned, almost angelically. “Overdue payment,” he said. “Came to collect two thousand.”

  “He just walked in, Mr. Sykes!” Fifi said angrily. “And he—”

  Quentin stopped Fifi by holding one hand up. It was a knack he seemed to have with students. “Nonsense,” he said. “My payment isn’t overdue.”

  It was the Goon’s turn to hold one hand up, grinning still. Since he was still holding Awful’s hand, Awful came up, too, dangling and yelling. He said something, but nothing could be heard but Awful. He had to shout it. “Should have had it two weeks ago! Archer’s annoyed—” This was as far as the Goon got before Awful somehow managed to climb up her own arm and fasten her teeth in the Goon’s knuckles. The Goon must have felt it. He turned to her reproachfully. “Drop you!” he shouted above the noise Awful was still making.

  “No, you won’t. You’ll put her down,” said Quentin. Long practice had given him a way of enlarging his voice so that it came through Awful’s. “Or you will if you want to hear yourself speak.”

  This seemed to strike the Goon as a good idea. He lowered Awful to the floor, where she stood putting her tongue in and out and making disgusted faces. “He tastes horrible,” she said. “Can I go on yelling?”

  “No,” said Quentin, and he said to the Goon, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never heard of this Archer. The man I deal with is Mountjoy.”

  “Don’t know Mountjoy,” said the Goon. “Must go to Archer in the end. Archer didn’t get it.”

  “But I tell you I sent it,” Quentin insisted. “I sent it last week. I know it was late, but Mountjoy never bothers, as long as it’s the full two thousand words.” He turned to Fifi. “You know I sent it, don’t you? It was that long envelope I gave you last week to drop in at the Town Hall.”

  It seemed to Howard that Fifi gave the faintest gasp at this, but she said promptly, “Oh, was that what it was? Yes, you did.”

  “Well then?” Quentin said to the Goon.

  The Goon folded his long arms and loomed a little. “Archer didn’t get it,” he repeated.

  “Then go ask Mountjoy about it,” said Quentin.

  “You ask him,” said the Goon. His round eyes slid sideways to the telephone on the desk.

  “All right,” said Quentin. “I will.” He went to the telephone and dialed. Howard, watching and listening and by now quite mystified, knew that his father really did dial the Town Hall. He heard the switchboard girl answer, “City Council. Which office, please?” And Quentin said, “Mr. Mountjoy. Extension sixohnine.” After a pause he could hear a man’s voice, a rich, rumbling voice, answering. Quentin, looking unlovingly at the Goon, said, “Quentin Sykes here, Mountjoy. It’s about my two thousand words. Someone seems to have sent me a hired assassin—”

  “Not killed anyone yet!” the Goon protested.

  “You shut up,” said Quentin. “He says the words are overdue. Now I know I sent them to you, just as usual, nearly a week ago—”

  The rich voice rumbled on the telephone. And rumbled more. Quentin’s face clouded and then began to look exasperated. He cut through the rumbling to say, “And who is Archer?” The voice rumbled some more. “Thank you,” said Quentin. He put the phone down and turned to the Goon, sighing.

  The Goon’s grin grew wide again. “Didn’t get them, did he?”

  “No,” Quentin admitted. “They do seem to have gone astray. But he’ll give me another week to—” He stopped because the Goon’s little head was shaking slowly fr
om side to side. “Now look here!”

  “Archer won’t wait,” said the Goon. “Want to go without electricity? Or gas? Archer farms power.”

  “I know,” Quentin said angrily. “Mountjoy just told me.”

  “Do the words again,” said the Goon.

  “Oh, all right,” Quentin said. “Come on, all of you. Let’s get back home and get it over with.”

  They marched silently back with the Goon looming over them. Howard was aching to ask his father what on earth was going on, but he did not get a chance. As soon as they reached the house, the Goon took up his former place, filling half the kitchen, and Quentin hurried to his study. The sound of typing came from there, in little rattling bursts, with long pauses in between. Awful went to the front room, where she turned on the television and sat brooding on bad things to do to the Goon. At least, Howard thought thankfully, Mum had not come in yet. He hoped very much that Dad could finish his typing and get rid of the Goon before she did.

  In the kitchen Fifi was climbing back and forth across the Goon’s legs again. “Help me get supper started at least, Howard, there’s a love,” she said. “Your mum’s going to be so depressed when she comes in and finds all this going on!”

  Catriona Sykes came in five minutes after that. She came in with her eyes shut, tottering, meaning it had been a bad day. Her job was organizing music in schools, and she got headaches from it. She put a stack of music, the evening paper, a tape deck, a bundle of recorders, and a set of cymbals down on the table and fell into a chair by feel, with her hands to her head. Howard watched the relief fading off her face as she listened to the sounds in the house and began to realize something was wrong. He saw her locate Awful by the sound of the television, and Quentin by the clattering of the typewriter, then Fifi by the hurried pouring of hot water into the coffee mug Fifi had ready. Howard saw Catriona follow the haste with which Fifi handed the mug to him and locate Howard by his footsteps hurriedly stepping over the Goon’s legs to give her the coffee. A frown grew on her face. As she took the mug, her head tilted to catch the scraping from the Goon’s knife as he sat cleaning his nails. She took a deep drink of the coffee, pushed her hair back, and opened her eyes to look at the Goon.

  “Who are you?” she said.

  He grinned his daft grin at her. “Goon,” he said.

  “I mean,” said Catriona, “what is your name?”

  Howard’s mother had a very strong personality. But so had the Goon in his way. The room seemed thick with them. Howard and Fifi both held their breaths. “Goon will do,” said the Goon, and went on grinning.

  Catriona gave him a long, level look. Then, to Howard’s surprise, she smiled quite pleasantly. “You look strong,” she said. “There’s a set of drums in my car. Help Howard get them in before they get damp or stolen.”

  And to Howard’s further surprise, the Goon got to his feet and loomed through the room. “Where to?” he asked Howard.

  The Goon was so strong that all Howard needed to do was show him the car and unlock the back. The Goon carried the drum set, bumping and booming, and set it down with a further boom in the hall. Then he went back to his chair in the kitchen. There Howard could see his mother had been asking Fifi what was going on. Fifi was looking upset. Catriona was taking it all much more calmly than Howard would have expected. She was just looking gloomily mystified.

  “I don’t mind as long as he’s quiet,” she said to Howard. “I’ve been listening to school orchestras all day—have you done your violin practice?—and my head’s splitting.” And before Howard needed to lie about the violin, she looked at the Goon and said, “Who is Archer?”

  The Goon looked back. He had a short think. “Farms power,” he said. “Gas and electricity. Money, too. Won’t worry you. You come under Torquil.”

  “You mean he’s a town councillor?” Catriona asked.

  That amused the Goon highly. He threw back his little head and laughed and clapped his long thigh with his vast hand. “That’s good!” he said. “Look like the Council, do I?”

  “No, I can’t say that you do,” said Catriona. She seemed utterly unable to find the Goon alarming. “He seems harmless enough,” she said to Howard as she got up to help Fifi cook. “Move your feet,” she said to the Goon. And the Goon did. He bent his legs up until his knees were near his ears and sat looking like a huge, ungainly grasshopper while Catriona got supper ready. Howard began to see that his mother had found the right way to manage the Goon. He tried it himself when he was setting the table. He told the Goon to get out of the way of the spoon drawer, and the Goon did and grinned at him. “Set for six, Howard,” Catriona said. “I expect the Goon would like some liver and bacon, too.”

  “Would!” the Goon said. He inhaled fried onions and grinned deeply.

  Howard began to feel that Mum was not taking a serious enough view of the Goon. When supper was ready, and Quentin’s typewriter was still doing bursts of clattering, Catriona said, “Howard, call your father and Awful.”

  “Not Sykes. Let him keep at it,” the Goon said.

  Catriona accepted this without even asking why and sent Howard into the study with a tray. Quentin looked up absently from his typewriter and said, “Put it down on those papers.” He did not seem alarmed or anxious either.

  “Dad,” said Howard, “I think Mum’s got the wrong idea. She’s giving the Goon supper. You don’t give hired assassins supper, do you?”

  Quentin smiled. “No, but when a wolf follows your sleigh, you give it meat,” he said. Howard could tell he was only halfserious. “Leave me in peace, or we’ll never get rid of him.”

  Howard went back to the kitchen, rather exasperated. He found the Goon sheepishly trying to wedge his knees under the table and Awful protesting. “I’m not going to have supper with him!” she was saying. “He threw his knife at me.”

  “Shouldn’t have screamed,” said the Goon. The table lifted on top of his knees, and things began to slide off one end. Fifi caught them. She looked as exasperated as Howard felt. The Goon slid Catriona an embarrassed look and doubled his legs around the back of his chair. He was really almost kneeling like that, and he looked very uncomfortable.

  “He did, Mum!” Awful shrilled. “And he smells.” When Catriona took no notice, Awful announced, “I hate everyone except Fifi.”

  “What have I done to get hated?” Howard demanded. “You were scared of the Goon,” Awful said.

  Howard found himself exchanging a shamed look with the Goon. “Scare myself sometimes,” the Goon remarked, cautiously picking up a knife and fork. He was trying to behave properly. He kept glancing nervously at Catriona and Fifi to see how he was doing, and he made strong efforts to keep his mouth shut while he chewed. Howard thought he nearly choked once or twice. Even so, the Goon managed to eat huge amounts. Howard had never seen such a stack of potatoes on anyone’s plate before. When he had finished, the Goon retreated quickly to the chair he had sat in before and sat in everyone’s way again, picking his teeth with his knife and looking relieved.

  “Wouldn’t you like to go watch the telly in the other room?” Fifi asked him after she had fallen over his legs six times.

  But the Goon shook his little head and sat on. He sat while Fifi cleared away and then went up to her room in the attic. He sat while Catriona washed up. When Catriona went away, too, and the Goon was still sitting, Howard thought he had better stay in the kitchen as well. He felt someone ought to watch him. So Howard fetched out his bag of books, with the rip in it that the Goon had made, and tried to do homework on the kitchen table. He found it hard to concentrate. With the Goon sitting there, he did not feel he could spend half the time designing spaceships, as he usually did. He could feel the Goon’s round eyes staring at him and see the knife that had ripped his bag flashing at the corner of his eye. When, at last, Quentin came into the kitchen carrying four typewritten pages, Howard was heartily relieved.

  The Goon sprang up, looking as relieved as Howard. He took the pages and examine
d them. Howard was quite surprised that the Goon seemed able to read.

  “That will have to do,” Quentin said as the Goon looked questioningly at him. “It’s not quite the same as I sent Mountjoy, but it’s as near as I could manage from memory.”

  “Not a copy?” asked the Goon.

  “Definitely no copy,” Quentin assured him.

  The Goon nodded, folded the papers, and stuffed them into the front of his leather jacket. “Get along to Archer then,” he said. “See you.” And he loomed his way to the back door, tore it open, ducked his little head under the lintel, and went away.

  As soon as the door slammed, Catriona and Awful shot into the kitchen. “Has he gone?” said Awful, and Catriona said, “Now tell us what all that was about.”

  “Nothing—nothing at all really,” Quentin said, in a way which everyone knew was much too airy. “Mountjoy’s idea of a joke, that’s all.”

  Catriona fixed him with her most powerful look. “Quentin,” she said, “that won’t do. He talked about Archer, not Mountjoy. Explain.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  In a career spanning four decades, award-winning author Diana Wynne Jones (1934–2011) wrote more than forty books of fantasy for young readers. Characterized by magic, multiple universes, witches and wizards—and a charismatic nine-lived enchanter—her books were filled with unlimited imagination, dazzling plots, and an effervescent sense of humor that earned her legendary status in the world of fantasy. In addition to being translated into more than twenty languages, her books have earned a wide array of honors—including two Boston Globe-Horn Book Award Honors and the Guardian Award—and appeared on countless best-of-the-year lists. Her best-selling Howl’s Moving Castle was made into an animated film by Japanese director Hayao Miyazaki and was nominated for an Academy Award. Diana Wynne Jones was also honored with many prestigious awards for the body of her work. She was given the British Fantasy Society’s Karl Edward Wagner Award in 1999 for having made a significant impact on fantasy, and she won the Lifetime Achievement Award at the World Fantasy Convention in 2007.