The Garden of Unearthly Delights Read online

  ‘Leave it out,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘No-one has had a chance to give it a name yet,’ said Sir John. ‘But if I might make so bold, I should call it “The Age of Almost Infinite Possibility”.’

  ‘Really?’ said Maxwell, most underwhelmed. ‘But surely every age is of almost unlimited possibility.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it, Max. You’re the hero, after all.’

  ‘The hero?’ Maxwell choked upon the grouts in his coffee. ‘I’m no hero. I’m just Mr Me. And I’m Maxwell, not Max.’

  ‘You were Maxwell. It will all become clear quite soon. Does any of this make the vaguest sense to you so far?’

  ‘You might try to be a bit more specific about this new “age” you say the earth has moved into. How did it move into it anyway? And why?’

  ‘There were signs of its coming. A shadow cast before, as it were. Prophecies, predictions.’

  ‘You’re saying that it’s the Apocalypse then? Or Armageddon?’

  ‘I am saying that the Age of Technology is no more. If you like, the earth has moved into a period of non-causality. Reality would appear to have fractured. A new age of myth and magic has dawned upon us.’

  ‘Magic doesn’t work,’ said Maxwell. ‘I’ve tried it.’

  ‘Magic didn’t work in the Age of Technology, how could it? It works again now though.’

  ‘You are pulling my plonker, surely?’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Sorry. Something hung over from the age of slang colloquialism.

  ‘Perhaps you should let Max take a look outside,’ said Dr Harney.

  ‘It’s Maxwell,’ said Maxwell. ‘After Maxwell House. My mum had this new neighbour move into the flat upstairs. And he came down to borrow some coffee one evening. And … you know …’

  ‘You have much to be grateful for,’ said Sir John.

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Well, he could have come down for some Domestos.’

  ‘Or some Ovaltine,’ said Dr Harney.

  ‘Or a packet of Durex,’ said the boy Collins.

  Three scathing glances turned his way.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the lad. ‘It just slipped out. Er, the Durex I mean. Not the willy in the Durex. Er—’

  ‘Actually he’s a bit of a prat in the books,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘Comic relief,’ said Sir John.

  ‘Hang about. Hang about,’ said Maxwell. ‘Before this goes any further. Say I accept that something really weird has happened and the Earth has moved into some new cycle or age or something. How does this explain you lot being here? This room being here? This is your room, isn’t it? Your study in the Hidden Tower? “The location of which is known to yourself alone.” Explain to me how I’m here talking to you. How you, a bunch of fictional characters, exist?’

  ‘In all truth,’ said Sir John, ‘it is you who should do the explaining. As you say, you are here in my study, conversing with myself and my trusted companions. How do you explain that?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Maxwell. ‘But then, frankly, I don’t give a toss.’

  Sir John made tut-tut-tuttings with his tongue.

  Dr Harney pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat and made a worried face at it.

  Danbury Collins moved nervously from one foot to the other.

  Dr Harney spoke. ‘The last reader is almost halfway through the final chapter,’ he said. ‘We have hardly any time left. Max must know what he has to do before the book closes for ever upon us.’

  Maxwell looked from face to worried face. ‘What is going on?’ he asked.

  ‘All right!’ Sir John leapt from the chesterfield. ‘Max, you must know this. My companions and I are fictional characters. We have no objective reality. We only live within our readers’ imaginations. But there we have life. There we exist. We have our adventures. We engross our readers. We become real. At this very moment, someone is reading this. Imbuing us with reality. Soon, however, they will become aware of the great change that has overtaken the planet. They will put down the book, never to open it again. Then we will cease for ever to be.’

  ‘That’s tragic,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘I do so agree. But there it is. That’s why it is so important that we pass on to you our knowledge. Pass on the books of magic, which, though before had only power within the imagination of the reader, can, in this new world, bend space and effect change. Pass on the techniques and skills you will need to survive and succeed in this strange new world.’

  ‘I’m very touched,’ said Maxwell. ‘But why me of all people? I’m just a work-shy bum. I have no special talents. Quite truthfully, I’m really rather dull.’

  ‘Quite truthfully, you’re really very dull.’

  ‘Oh, thanks a lot.’

  ‘But we have no choice in the matter. Dull old Maxwell Karrien will soon cease to be.’

  ‘He will?’

  ‘He will. To be replaced by Max Carrion, Imagineer.’

  ‘Max Carrion,’ said Maxwell. ‘I quite like the sound of that. But what’s an imagineer, for Goddess sake?’

  ‘A kind of cross between Bladerunner, Darkman, Doctor Strange and Cugel the Clever.’

  ‘Sounds a bit derivative.’

  ‘You’ll put a new slant on it.’

  ‘I’m sure I won’t.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, Max. But listen, we must be quick. We can only talk to you like this because the reader is daydreaming for a moment. In a minute he will continue reading and then we must continue to act out our roles. We are powerless to alter the plot. We must pass on our skills to you now.’

  Maxwell shook his head. ‘But you still haven’t told me why you’ve chosen me of all people for this.’

  Sir John Rimmer sighed deeply. ‘Because, my dear Max, it is you who are reading the book. You are the last reader.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You see,’ said Dr Harney, ‘fictional characters can’t choose their readers. Would that they could. But as you are our final reader, to you we bequeath our knowledge. And . . .’ He paused, his mouth hanging open, and ceased to move.

  ‘Go on,’ said Maxwell. ‘What?’

  ‘He . . .’ Sir John half turned and then froze to a statue.

  ‘What’s happening? Danbury?’

  Danbury Collins managed to say, ‘The book is being read again. Now he comes.’

  ‘He? Who?’

  A violent knocking now came upon the chamber door that Maxwell had sought earlier to escape by, but failed to locate.

  Dr Harney became galvanized into action. He twisted the pommel of his lacquered cane and drew from the shaft a shining blade.

  Sir John was moving once again, this time towards the door.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Maxwell, knowing something was and fumbling to free his bootlaces.

  ‘Have a care,’ called Sir John. ‘He will not have come alone.

  ‘Who’s he?’ Maxwell slipped forward from his armchair and fell once more to the floor.

  Elm splinters, shards of aspen inlay, fractured gilded bolts. The study door lurched from its hinges, smashed into the room.

  Two monstrous forms — distorted heads with quills for hair and light bulb eyes, snapping jaws and pointed tongues, great barrel chests in leather harness and hands that reached down to the knees — charged forward, tumbling priceless antiques, elbowing aside the library globes and statuary. Roaring, yelling. Terrifying.

  Maxwell took shelter beneath one of the satinwood escritoires and looked on fearfully as an alarming scene began to unfold.

  ‘Back, foul spawn of Satan’s bed-sit.’ Sir John raised up his hands, uttered syllables, formed enigmatic figures with his fingers. Maxwell’s ears popped as waves of pressure buffeted the room. Sparks crackled from Sir John’s hands. Beams of energy flew from his contorted fingers and smote the monsters, fiercely, thus and so.

  The things cried out in anguish, backed away and cowered. Then they shrivelled, gutte
red like two dying candles, and were gone.

  ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll,’ whispered Maxwell. ‘Was that something else, or what?’

  ‘Dr Harney, the scroll,’ cried Sir John. ‘He must not have the scroll.’

  What scroll? thought Maxwell. And what he?

  The doctor patted at his pockets. ‘I don’t have the scroll. It’s gone from where I put it.’

  ‘What?’ whispered Maxwell, keeping his head down and struggling to untie his laces.

  Sir John’s face was grave. ‘The scroll holds all the power,’ he said. ‘He that can decipher it will have ultimate control. It must never fall into the hands of the count. If it did, all would be lost.’

  ‘Not for me it wouldn’t.’

  Maxwell jerked his head towards the speaker and was quite impressed by what he saw. Framed in the doorway was the very picture of evil: big and bald and bad to the bone; skin bone-white and clothes of graveyard black; the face, that mask of hatred and contempt that villains wear. The overall demeanour one of menace. Sinister and cruel.

  ‘Count Waldeck,’ said Sir John. ‘We meet at last.’

  ‘It’s the count,’ whispered Maxwell to his boots. ‘Sir John’s arch enemy. The Moriarty to his Sherlock Holmes. This must be the big confrontation scene in the final chapter of the book. The book I’m supposed to be reading at this very moment. And somehow I’m in it too. Because I’m so engrossed in it, or something. I suppose it makes some kind of sense, if you’re prepared to let it. And I am.’

  Maxwell’s boots had no comment to make.

  ‘You know what I’ve come for,’ said the count. ‘If you wish me to spare your lives, hand it over.’

  ‘Never.’ Sir John crooked his fingers, uttered words. Power welled. Light blazed. Then faltered. Fizzled. Fluttered and melted away.

  ‘Damn,’ said Sir John.

  The count dusted specks of white from night-clad shoulders. ‘You would appear to have given me dandruff,’ he said. ‘But no matter.’ He flung up his hands. Golden cords snaked across the room, whipped about Sir John, bound him fast.

  Sir John fought and wriggled but to no avail.

  ‘My magic is more powerful than your own,’ sneered the count. ‘The day is mine, I think.’

  ‘But how did you find this place?’ Sir John squared up in his bondage. ‘Its location is a secret, known only to myself and my loyal companions.’

  ‘Loyal?’ The count raised an evil eyebrow, laughed an evil laugh.

  ‘No.’ Sir John turned his eyes to his companions. Dr Harney was bound fast. Danbury, however, was not.

  ‘You told him?’

  Danbury shuffled his DMs and giggled ghoulishly. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Look, I didn’t ask to be written. And it’s more fun being the bad guy. Everyone knows that.’

  ‘The scroll,’ said the count. ‘Where is the scroll?’

  ‘Max has it,’ said Danbury.

  ‘Max? Who is this Max?’

  Maxwell, who had finally freed his bootlaces, was edging towards the door.

  ‘That Max,’ said Danbury, pointing to the Max in question.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Maxwell, climbing to his feet.

  ‘Give me the scroll.’

  Maxwell grinned a sickly grin. ‘I don’t have any scroll. And I’m really not supposed to be in this. Would it be all right if I just sort of slipped away?’

  ‘No it would not. Give me the scroll.’

  ‘I don’t have any scroll.’

  ‘He does,’ said Danbury. ‘I sent it to him in the mail yesterday, after I stole, it from Dr Harney.’

  ‘In the mail?’ Maxwell dug into his inner pocket, pulled out a roll of paper. The Queen’s Award for Industry Award (award). ‘You don’t mean this?’

  ‘That’s it. Give it to me now.’ The count took a step forward.

  Maxwell took one back. ‘Not a chance,’ said he.

  ‘Give it to him.’ Danbury made urging gestures. ‘He’ll let you join his gang.’

  ‘I don’t want to join his gang. He’s a right bastard.’

  ‘Bastards have more fun,’ said the count.

  ‘Surely that’s blondes have more fun.’

  ‘You could dye your hair,’ said Danbury. ‘You’re a right little shit, you are.’

  Maxwell clutched the scroll of paper to his bosom. ‘I’m not giving this to anyone. In fact, I’m going to rip the bloody thing to pieces.’

  ‘You won’t do that.’

  ‘Oh no, and for why?’

  Danbury smiled. ‘Because you haven’t the strength.’

  ‘I have, you know.’ Maxwell gripped the scroll between both hands and struggled without success to rip it up. ‘I haven’t,’ he concluded, somewhat puffed. ‘I wonder why that is.’

  ‘Because I poisoned your cup of coffee. You have only moments to live.’

  ‘You thorough going swine!’

  ‘So I’ll take that.’ Danbury reached forward and tore the scroll from Maxwell’s fingers. ‘You can’t change the plot. The count wins this time.’

  ‘No.’ Maxwell’s fingers were turning numb. His mouth was growing dry.

  ‘But yes.’ Danbury knelt down before the count and offered up the scroll.

  ‘Good boy, my loyal servant, now take this.’ The count placed a silver pistol into the upraised hand. ‘And kill them all.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Danbury rose, turned and aimed the gun at Sir John.

  ‘No,’ croaked Maxwell. ‘You can’t do that. The series can’t finish this way. It just can’t.’

  ‘It can, you know.’ Danbury Collins cocked back the hammer and pulled the trigger. Maxwell turned his face away. Another shot rang out and Dr Harney too fell dead.

  ‘No, no, no, no, no, no,’ gagged Maxwell, slumping down onto his knees. ‘It’s all wrong. The bad guys can’t win. By the Goddess, I feel sick.’

  ‘That will pass,’ said Danbury. ‘Then you’ll just feel dead.’

  ‘Danbury,’ said the count.

  ‘Yes, master?’

  ‘Shoot yourself in the head, will you?’

  ‘Certainly, master, anything you say.’

  Danbury put the pistol to his temple and shot his brains out. ‘I think I might just have taken loyalty to extremes there,’ he murmured, as he crumpled, lifeless, to the floor.

  ‘Good lad.’ The count made free with the evil grins and unrolled Maxwell’s certificate. And then a look of some concern appeared upon his face. ‘What is this?’ he muttered. ‘WHAT IS THIS?’

  ‘It’s a Queen’s Award for Industry Award,’ said Max, ‘award.’

  The count spun round.

  And Maxwell raised his head.

  There in the doorway stood himself, though looking somewhat better than he’d ever looked before. His hair was combed high into a shining crest. The face was tanned, corded with muscle about the hard-set mouth. The eyes were glinting beneath down-curving brows.

  His hands were thrust deeply into the pockets of a simply splendid coat of black leather that reached almost to the ankles of a similarly splendid pair of riding boots. This coat hung open to reveal a cravat of dark material, secured by silver pins, a rich crimson brocade waistcoat and a number of belts, which holstered pistols, daggers and a samurai sword in a polished scabbard. His corduroy trousers bulged at the knees with pockets, which no doubt harboured further fearsome armament.

  This Maxwell looked like he meant business.

  ‘So,’ said the count, ‘I don’t think we have been introduced.’

  ‘The name is Carrion,’ said Carrion, ‘Max Carrion, Imagineer.’

  ‘You don’t look particularly imaginative, Mr Carrion. More like a cross between Bladerunner, Darkman, Doctor Strange and Cugel the Clever.’

  ‘He looks bloody good to me,’ croaked Maxwell, making unpleasant death-rattle sounds in his throat. ‘But then, I am rather dull.’

  ‘And you’ll soon be rather dead,’ said the count.

  �
��But not before you,’ said Max Carrion.

  ‘Oh, don’t waste my time, please.’ Count Waldeck flung up his hands and made mystical passes. A stream of purple energy arced towards the chap in the simply splendid coat.

  The chap moved not an eyelash.

  The gush of power engulfed him. Stinging. Blistering. Consuming.

  Max Carrion stood, cool and unconcerned. The count’s face contorted, he rocked upon his heels, ground his teeth, cast further bolts of force.

  Max took a packet of Woodbine from his pocket, withdrew one, held it towards the flames that engulfed him and drew a puff or two.

  ‘What?’ The count grew purple in the face. His body rocked and shivered. More light came, but weaker. And then none at all.

  ‘All done?’ asked Max Carrion.

  ‘What?’ The count examined his fingers. They were a bit charred about the tips. He looked all done.

  ‘I think he’s all done,’ said Max.

  ‘I think he is,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘What?’ went the count once more, turning to the seated poisoned fellow.

  ‘You’ve run out of steam,’ said that man, rising to his feet, then stooping to pluck the pistol from Danbury’s dead hand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re all used up. And now you’re dead.’ Maxwell turned the pistol on the count, pulled the trigger and shot him.

  ‘Nice one,’ said Max.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Maxwell, blowing into the barrel.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Sir John, dusting fragments of the golden bonds away from his person.

  ‘A first-rate job,’ agreed Dr Harney, jumping up and aiding the long man into the vertical. ‘Most skilfully performed.’

  ‘Thanks too,’ said Maxwell.

  Groan and croak, went the count. ‘You shot me.’

  Maxwell grinned down at him. ‘Well, I couldn’t have you win, could I?’

  ‘But how did you do it? How did you change the ending? I was supposed to win.’

  Maxwell’s grin turned towards Sir John. ‘Should I tell him?’ he asked.

  ‘I think you should,’ said the long man. ‘The villain always gets an explanation from his Nemesis. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something.

  ‘All right.’ Maxwell looked down at the count. ‘How are you doing for time?’

  ‘I’ll last about another minute, get a move on.’