Authors: M. J. Trow
The phone shattered his cogitation. ‘Oh, bugger.’ Sergeant Mitchell flew over his horse’s neck and landed at an angle, the animal’s ears jammed into his crotch. ‘Get that, will you, Count?’
As usual, the animal ignored him.
‘War Office,’ he grabbed the receiver, wrestling with his plastic creation.
‘Max. Oh, thank God.’
‘Sylv?’ Maxwell was frowning. Something was wrong.
‘It’s Tiffany, Max. She’s gone.’
They sat, in the long watches of the night, huddled in Sylvia’s Clio. Every now and again, Sylvia herself would glance in her driving mirror at the little girl in the back seat. Lucy’s face was dark and small, shrunk in the shadows and as she turned, there was a silver trail down her left cheek.
Sylvia Matthews should have been happy. She was sitting alongside the man she loved, her fingers clasped in his. But the warmth had turned to terror and only now could she bring her courage to the sticking place and look him in the face.
Mad Max wasn’t looking at either of them. His left hand rested on the door handle, his eyes fixed on the frosted window of The Grapes, the dive in Fountain Street that had been home to Leighford’s lushes for generations. The elegant Victorian façades glowed with their floodlights and a thumping bass reverberated along the length of Maxwell’s tether.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. It was only a murmur, but to Lucy it sounded like a trumpet-blast and she visibly jumped, her heart jumping into her throat as he spoke. ‘I’m going in.’
‘No, Max,’ Sylvia’s hand squeezed his and she half turned. There was a shriek on the pavement behind them and a nubile lovely, tottering on fuck-me heels, clattered past chased by a zombie with a shaven head – the unspeakable in pursuit of the all-too-catchable. ‘What if I’m wrong? What if he’s not there?’
‘If you’re wrong, then we’ll start again. We haven’t tried Big Willy’s yet or the Salamander.’ He looked at her for the first time in what seemed forever. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ve cleared bars before. Warlock, Gunfight at the OK Corral, I’ve seen ‘em all. All you do is let fly before the other guy does. Now, you two,’ he broke Sylvia’s panicky grip and turned to face both his girls, ‘stay put.’ He was staring into their eyes, willing them to obey him. ‘I won’t be long. Neither of you is to move. All right, darlings?’ And he winked at them, trying to lighten the moment, as much for himself as them.
They both nodded.
‘Max …’ Sylvia began.
But he’d held a finger to her lips and looked across at Lucy.
‘Uncle Maxie,’ she filled the empty silence. ‘Will it be all right?’
He winked again, reached across Sylvia’s headrests and kissed the girl’s forehead. ‘Trust me, lady,’ he gave her his best Bruce Willis, ‘I’m a teacher.’ And he was gone, sidestepping the vomit by the old bootscraper, crashing through the bat-wing doors. Henry Fonda, Burt Lancaster, they’d have been proud of him. But the old joanna in the corner didn’t stop playing. There was no scrape of furniture as the nervous brethren of the cowtown ducked for cover, out of the line of fire. No buffalo gal came sauntering up to him, looking like Lana Turner or Virginia Mayo, saying ‘You wanna dance, mister?’ And the balding barkeep didn’t slide a half empty bottle of Redeye the length of the mahogany counter.
Instead, the lights continued to whirl and spray in the darkened corners and Afterbirth were loafing around a cluster of mike stands, standing sideways to the audience to disguise the weakness of their chord mastery. One of them was shouting obscenities into a mike to disguise his lack of ability as a singer. They’d got a tame orangutan with a woolly hat thumping the drums at the back, swinging at his cymbals every now and again in the hope that it vaguely resembled whatever the bassist was supposed to be doing.
‘Where,’ muttered Maxwell, ‘are Peter, Paul and Mary when you need them?’
In other circumstances, Peter Maxwell would have moseyed to the bar, bought a Southern Comfort or failing that a pint, found a dark corner and chosen his time. But these weren’t other circumstances, and he didn’t have the time. He barged into the circle of raucous joke-tellers and hauled one of them upright. ‘Mr Irwin,’ he snarled into the young man’s face. ‘A shout in your ear, if I may,’ and he dragged him outside.
Sylvia and Lucy saw them both tumble out, the shorter one pulling the taller by his collar. They saw the shorter one look round in the bright light from the pub’s windows and then they vanished up the blackness of the alley that ran alongside.
Irwin felt his teeth crunch as the back of his head hit the wall. ‘Where is she?’ Maxwell wanted to know.
‘Who?’ Irwin asked.
Maxwell’s fist still gripped his collar. Maxwell’s nose was inches from his. ‘You’ve known me, boy and boy, for seven years, Mark,’ his Head of Sixth Form told him. ‘A long and glorious apprenticeship. But I’m not Mr Maxwell tonight, the guy who tells you funny stories and holds your hand through all the trials of GCSE and A level. Tonight, I’m a bloke whose niece has gone missing and I’m not inclined to be reasonable and I want some answers. Now, however many you’ve sunk tonight, sunshine, I want you to clear your head and tell me about every breath you’ve taken since seven thirty. Make it so.’
There was a murmur at the lit end of the alleyway and Maxwell looked up to see a knot of silhouetted oafs blocking the light. ‘You all right, Marky?’ one of them asked.
‘No sweat, Joe,’ Irwin called. ‘Just a last minute spot of revision before my History A level.’
‘You what?’
‘It’s fine, Joe, really. You go along now. I’ll be in later.’
‘What did that old geezer want?’ Joe was persistent, but he was a little taken aback by Maxwell looming out of the dark at him.
‘The old geezer wants to be left alone.’ His Greta Garbo was, as ever, lost on the younger generation.
‘You what?’ Joe squared up to the man, his mates around him, his dander up, his reputation on the line.
‘Seen
Le Bossu
?’ Maxwell asked casually. ‘It’s a French film, means The Hunchback. A rattling good yarn, lots of excellent swordplay.’
‘What the fuck you talking about?’
‘Come on, Joe,’ a mate murmured. ‘Leave it alone, eh?’
‘Yes,’ Maxwell’s Biro flashed silver in the street light. ‘It’s all about concentration, feint, confuse. Known as the Nevers attack.’
‘What?’ Joe was more confused than ever.
‘It’s all about the fact that there’s a weak point in the skull, just above the bridge of the nose.’ He tapped Joe’s forehead and the lad bobbed backwards.
‘Come out of it, Joe, that’s Mad Max. He’ll fuckin’ kill you.’
Joe had never been to Leighford High School. His mate had. Even so, there was something in the mate’s voice, the tug on his sleeve. Maxwell threw the pen to his right hand from his left, ‘Parry in Seventh, riposte.’ He jerked his right arm behind his back so that the ballpoint protruded by his waist, ‘Envelop in quarte, take blade as you change arm,’ then hurled it back so that his left hand came out of nowhere, the Biro’s business end quivering above Joe’s nose. ‘To the forehead.’ The lad’s eyes crossed, his mouth sagged open, an inky dot between his eyebrows.
‘Fortunately,’ Maxwell smiled, ‘that’s only a dummy run, with a Parker Flighter. Now, let’s try it with a knife, shall we?’
But the knot of heavies had gone, legging it down the street in their Doc Martens and nobody was running faster than Joe.
‘I’m sorry about them,’ Mark Irwin said at Maxwell’s elbow. Maxwell clicked the Biro point and slid it back into his pocket.
‘Tiffany,’ he said to the lad. ‘You don’t leave this alleyway until I know where she is.’
But Peter Maxwell didn’t find out where Tiffany was, not from Mark Irwin. The boy had made his usual five-thirty phone call, from his mobile somewhere along the Front. It was his mother’s birthday day after tomorrow and he’d gone in search of a present. Luck had deserted him so he thought he’d try a woman’s input. Jessica wasn’t talking to him at the moment, Emma had about as much feminine sense as a lock forward and it was unlikely that Hazel would know what day it was. Tiffany now was a different proposition. He’d rung for her advice and she’d told him that mothers’ birthday presents required face-to-face consultation. She was free that very evening as a matter of fact.
Sylvia Matthews hadn’t been too sure, but she’d given in. She knew Mark. He may have some rough diamond friends, but he was a gentleman. His old man was a University lecturer for God’s sake. Surely, Tiffany was safe with him? They’d chatted for a while at Sylvia’s, dashing Mark and his golden girl. Lucy had walked through the lounge an awful lot, prattling about, doing this-and-that essential something-or-other. Eventually, Sylvia had taken her away and metaphorically tied her up in the kitchen. At about seven, Mark had popped the vital question. Could he and Tiffany go to see A Bug’s Life? There was a showing at 7.30, the animation was great and it would take Tiffany’s mind off the appalling prospect of having Mad Max for an uncle for the rest of his life, if not hers. Sylvia hadn’t been too sure, but the girl was already changing and when Sylvia saw what she’d put on, she made her change again, and they were gone into the Leighford night.
They’d watched the film – excellent fare; Maxwell would have approved. And in case the Great Man was wondering, no, Mark Irwin made it a rule never to kiss on the first date. That seemed to piss Tiffany off a little, but hey, he was a gentleman and a scholar. Maxwell doubted both, but let it pass. He’d bought her an icecream before the film started and they shared a bag of chips on the way home. He’d dropped her off at Nurse Matthew’s at just after ten, thanked her for a lovely evening and headed home. He hadn’t intended to nip in for a swift one, but a few mates flagged him down in a beat-up beetle and they’d gone to The Grapes. The last time he’d seen Tiffany, she’d been waiting for Nurse Matthews to let her in.
‘There was nothing, Max,’ Sylvia sat in the harsh neon of her kitchen, cradling a mug of coffee, wishing she could put back the hands of time. ‘The bell didn’t ring. Not when Mark said he’d dropped Tiffany back, not at any time. And the bell is working, I know. I’ve checked. You’re sure Mark’s right about the time?’
Maxwell nodded. ‘The kid was scared,’ he said, staring into the swirl of his coffee. ‘I frightened him tonight, Sylv. Oh, yes, he’s six foot one and he’s a man of the world, but it’s not every day your Head of Sixth Form goes apeshit. I’m afraid I don’t feel very proud of myself.’
She reached out and took his hand. ‘You don’t!’ she said, tears welling in her dark eyes. ‘And what about me? I’m to blame. I’m the one.’
‘No.’ He put the cup down and held her to him, stroking her hair, kissing away the tears. ‘No,’ he told her. ‘Look at me when I’m talking to you, Sylv.’ It was an excellent Eric Morecambe, but she was too wound up to notice. ‘This isn’t about you at all,’ he said, ‘or about Tiffany. It’s about me.’
‘Oh, Max, where is she?’
Maxwell laid the frightened woman’s head on his shoulder and felt her tears soak into his shirt. ‘That’s the one, Sylv,’ he whispered. ‘That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question. And just about now, I’d trade every scrap of useless bloody knowledge I’ve got for that one, single answer.’
They drove to Maxwell’s that night, to lazy, winding Columbine with its blossom trees and its cosy houses. They’d got together everything that made sense for a siege. From now on, it was the three of them together, the dauntless three against the world. Maxwell’s answerphone was flashing in the dim light as he reached the lounge.
‘That thing’s flashing again,’ Metternich thought as he stretched his full length on the carpet. ‘Oh, shit. Women!’ and he bolted up the stairs to the Inner Sanctum where only he was welcome, along with the 387 soldiers of Maxwell’s growing Light Brigade, sitting patiently in their saddles ready for the fourth order of that fateful morning long, long ago.
‘Max, darling, it’s Sandie.’ Lucy stood in the middle of the room at the sound of her mother’s voice. It was late. Very late. And it had been such a day. ‘Another week, I promise. Sorry to mess you about again. Love to the girls. I’ll ring again, but it’s gone a bit pear-shaped out here.’
Her message’s bleep was drowned out by Lucy’s sobs, heavy, uncontrollable. Maxwell pulled her head into his chest and cradled it. Over the sweet-smelling brown hair he nodded Sylvia in the direction of the bedroom and Nurse Matthews, with her long years in the TLC Department, took the hint and the girl and led them both away.
But there was another voice on Maxwell’s machine, a man’s voice, one he didn’t recognize. ‘Mr Maxwell. I hope you haven’t been out combing the streets and I hope you haven’t contacted the police. Either way, it would be pointless. The first because she’s not on the streets. The latter because Tiffany will die if you do. I will contact you again with specific instructions. Now, I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but the life of your niece is in your hands.’ And the line went dead.
‘Shit!’ Maxwell had stood frozen, rooted to the spot in fear. Now he moved himself, pressing the replay button and sitting on the edge of the seat, where his heart had been all the time.
‘My God!’ Sylvia Matthews’s comment was barely audible. She’d left Lucy getting ready for bed and was in search of a towel when she heard the voice. She sat down heavily on the floor, suddenly not trusting her legs.
‘I’m ringing Jacquie,’ Maxwell had the receiver in his hand.
‘No, Max,’ she screamed at him, snatching the white plastic from him. ‘The tape …’
He snatched it back, looking steadily and calmly into her eyes, brimming as they were with all the emotions of the longest night of her life. ‘The tape said no police. But Jacquie isn’t police, not in the literal sense, not tonight.’
‘Max.’
But he was punching out the numbers, twisting the cord around his fist, chewing his lip. Come on. Come on.
‘Hello?’ It was a confused and bleary voice on the other end of the line.
‘It’s Maxwell.’
‘Max? Do you know what time it is?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But I know it’s not time for clichés. Jacquie, we’ve got trouble. Can you get over here now?’