The Garden of Unearthly Delights (13 page)

Or even
having been remorselessly beaten with ball-pane plannishing hammers, wielded by
a sheet-metal worker named Brian and two of his drunken mates, outside a pub in
Camden
Town
at closing-time, because he mistook you for the bloke who had been
splitting his wife’s bamboo while he was on the nightshift.

No,
actually the last one is somewhat different, as the blows rained are aimed
towards a specific area of the body.

Maxwell
groaned and felt about his person. ‘By the Goddess,’ he mumbled, ‘I feel as if
I’ve been remorselessly beaten with ball-pane plannishing hammers, wielded
by—’

‘A
sheet-metal worker named Brian?’ asked a voice. Maxwell turned his aching head
to view its owner and was impressed by what he saw.

In the
doorway stood a figure of heroic proportion. His broad shoulders almost filling
the entrance span, his head bowed to avoid contact with the lintel. This man
was a veritable giant.

And he
was marvellously dressed.

All in
red. Every inch. His costume was intricate, highly decorated and many layered.
Over a ruffled shirt with four collars, flounced sleeves and gathered cuffs, he
wore a number of sleeveless garments, graduating in length from the innermost,
which reached nearly to the floor, to the outermost, which was little more than
a skimpy bolero.

His
baggy trousers were tucked rakishly into red leather kneeboots with stylish
double toes.

All in
all this outfit created a most singular and dashing appearance, but one
somewhat at odds with his face. This was a bloated affair, big as a pig’s
bladder balloon, all puffs and rolls of flesh. The eyes, black points, were
scarcely visible, the nose was a dab of putty, the hair a red ruff teased into
a thousand hedgehog quills.

Returning
to the nose, which Maxwell had no particular wish to do, but did, none the
less, this nose was pierced through the centre cartilage between the nostrils,
by a huge golden ring which encircled the mouth and reached almost to the first
of several chins. From this ring hung two slender golden chains, one of which
looped up to the left ear lobe, the other to the right.

‘Are
you feeling yourself?’ asked the big red man.

‘No,’
said Maxwell. ‘It’s just the way I’m sitting.’

The big
red man nodded thoughtfully. ‘This is
my
house,’ said he. ‘And anyone
who engages in cheap
double entendre
here receives a smack in the gob.
Do I make myself clear?’

‘Certainly,’
said Maxwell. ‘You have no need to press home your point.

‘Good,’
said the big red man. ‘So what do you feel like?’

‘I feel
like shit, as it happens.’

‘Well,
that’s a pity, because I only have cornflakes.’

Maxwell
shook his aching head.

‘Just
my little joke,’ said the big red man.

‘Really?’
said Maxwell.

‘Of
course. I have eggs, bacon, sausage and toast also. Follow me.’

With a great deal of
groaning and creaking and cracking of joints, Maxwell followed his enormous
host from the room of rude animals, across a hallway lined with statuary of
equal rudeness, up an elegant sweep of stairs and into a wonderful circular
room.

This
had a high domed ceiling, decorated with a
trompe-l’oeil
of rich blue
sky, dappled by scudding clouds. So cunning had been the hand which wrought
this masterpiece, that the clouds appeared to drift free of the ceiling and
hover in the room beneath.

The big
man’s tiny black eyes followed the direction of Maxwell’s large round ones. ‘An
interesting piece,’ said he. ‘Although somewhat fanciful. A blue sky, who could
imagine such a thing?’

‘I
could,’ said Maxwell, wistfully.

‘Look
from the windows and tell me what you see.’ Glazed apertures, set between
pillars which supported the dome, encircled the room, Maxwell limped slowly
from one to another, peering out.

Beneath
lay the village, petticoat-pretty and Queen-Mother-quaint; beyond, the
cultivated fields and flower gardens, abruptly contained by the circle of
raised columns with their spherical headpieces; beyond this, bleak moorland and
the forest to the south.

‘Should
I be seeing something specific?’ Maxwell enquired.

The big
man in red stared over Maxwell’s head. ‘Something
most
specific,’ he
said. ‘What you see, there below. All around, thus and so. Is no jest and no
joke. But a conclave of folk. Self-sufficient, contained. Content and
unstrained. Order from chaos, complete harmony. A delicate balance,
that’s
what
you see.’

‘Most
poetic,’ said Maxwell. ‘And very nice too.’

‘I’m so
glad you think so,’ said the big red man. ‘Because that’s the way
it’s ruddy
well
staying!’

Maxwell
smiled up at his host. ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll,’ said he, raising a thumb.

‘Then
let us eat.’ Maxwell’s host waved a great hand towards a circular table at the
centre of the room. Its top was a mighty slab of clear rock crystal supported
by the raised hands of a grinning naked satyr, carved from black basalt. The
look of pleasure evident upon the face of this grotesque was in no small part
due to the oral homage being paid him by the kneeling figure of a woodland
nymph. This being, delicately wrought in white marble, was a thing of extreme
beauty and Maxwell’s eyes dwelt upon it for more than a moment.

‘Sit
down and get stuck in,’ said Maxwell’s host.

Maxwell
glanced up at the big red man who was lowering his big red self into a big red
throne-like chair.

A
single other seat remained before the table, this was a knackered old bentwood
number. Maxwell shrugged and sat down upon it.

‘Eat,’
said his host.

‘Thank
you,’ said Maxwell.

The
table was burdened by a bounty of local fare: pyramids of boiled goose eggs, a
fine pink hock of ham, a tray of baked muffins, a pot of steamed mushrooms,
jars of honey and pickled preserves, a silver samovar simmering tea, and a
whole lot more, which without the aid of some cunning literary artifice would
be far too tedious to list.

There
were, however, white linen table napkins and ivory-handled cutlery of the
‘Saltsberg’ pattern. The china came as a bit of a body-blow though. It was that
nasty fruit-spattered stuff that you get from the
Argos
catalogue.

‘Careful
with the china,’ said Maxwell’s host. ‘Most valuable and antique.’

Maxwell
ladled a helping of plump sausages onto his plate. He was
very
hungry
indeed.

‘So,’
said the big fellow, delicately dispensing tea. ‘You are Maxwell.’

‘That’s
me.’ Maxwell forked sausage into his mouth and began to munch.

‘And
you are an imagineer.’

Maxwell’s
munching ceased. ‘Who told you that?’ he asked.

‘Never
mind. But listen, how rude of me. I have not introduced myself.’ The big man
reached a big hand across the table for Maxwell to shake. ‘I am MacGuffin,’ he
said.

Maxwell
shook the big hand. It was soft as a spun-silk sporran, if such a thing exists.
The nails were delicate and richly lacquered. The thumb was embraced by a
golden ring clasping a jade disc, intagliated with an erotic device.

Maxwell’s
hand returned to his fork, his fork to his sausage. ‘Then this village is named
after one of your ancestors,’ said Maxwell, before pushing the sausage home.

‘Named
after
me,’
said MacGuffin. ‘It is
my
village. Within the circle
of columns, all is
mine.’

Maxwell
nodded as he ate.

‘I am
known by many appellations,’ the big man continued. ‘MacGuffin the Munificent.
MacGuffin the Merciful. MacGuffin—’

‘The
Maroon?’ Maxwell asked.

‘MacGuffin
the Mage,’ said MacGuffin, in no uncertain tone. ‘And MacGuffin the Maleficent
to any who dare rub me up the wrong way with duff remarks like that.’

 Maxwell
reached for a tomato ketchup bottle which had previously escaped mention.
‘Mage, you say?’ said he. ‘Do you mean, as in magician?’

‘You
thought, perchance, that I was a plumber?’ MacGuffin laughed.

‘Pornographer
perhaps,’ said Maxwell, squirting ketchup on his sausage.

MacGuffin’s
laughter stilled away. ‘Magician I am. And one of no trifling talent. I
maintain absolute control within the environs of my domain. I am a benign
despot. All who dwell here understand this and are employed in a useful
capacity. They enjoy the benefits of my maintenance of their equilibrium.’

‘Well,’
said Maxwell. ‘You would appear to be doing a splendid job and as I assume I
have you to thank for nursing me back to health, I thank you. Very much.’

‘Indeed.’
MacGuffin passed Maxwell a cup of tea.

‘I was
hoping to take some kind of work,’ said Maxwell, accepting the cup.

‘There
is no work here for a man like you.’

‘Oh,
Dave must have got it wrong then.’

‘I said
there is no work
here.
There is work for you elsewhere though. I divine
in you, Maxwell, a man who lacks purpose. A man of great talent, but one condemned
to put this talent to no good use, unless under the guidance of some leading
light. Tell me, have you ever heard of a town called Grimshaw?’

Maxwell,
who had been packing toast into his mouth, now spat this all over the table.
‘Sorry,’ he spluttered. ‘Went down the wrong way. Grimshaw, you say? No, I
don’t think I know the name.’

‘How
strange,’ MacGuffin dusted flecks from his layered leisurewear. ‘Several riders
came through here only yesterday. They spoke of a terrible disaster that had
befallen Grimshaw and told of the three men responsible. One of these answered
to your description and also, would you believe, your name.’

‘Coincidences
abound,’ said Maxwell, dabbing at his chin. ‘Many have sought to interpret
them, all with an equal lack of success.’

‘All,
that is, before
me,’
said MacGuffin. ‘But then I do not believe in
coincidence. I believe in predestination. I feel absolutely certain that fate
has taken you by the hand and led you directly to my door.’

‘That’s
a cheering thought,’ said Maxwell, who had the feeling that it was anything
but. ‘These, er, riders, are they still in. the village?’

‘No.
They have departed on their way. All bar one, who has departed upon
mine.’

The
sinister emphasis laid on the word
mine,
was not lost upon Maxwell who
now felt quite certain that it was time to say thank you and farewell. There
was something deeply unsettling about this gargantuan figure with his love of
the lewd and his taste for autocracy. ‘Well,’ said Maxwell. ‘This has been a
most marvellous meal and again I must thank you for looking after me and
everything. But I’m sure your time is valuable and I must not presume to take
it up in such abundance. Thank you and farewell.’ He rose shakily to his feet.

MacGuffin
fluttered his fingers. ‘Stay, stay,’ said he. ‘I would not have you leave quite
yet. Eat your fill. Sustain yourself for your journey.’

‘All
full up,’ said Maxwell, patting his belly. ‘Goodbye now.’

‘Sit
down!’
MacGuffin fluttered his fingers once more
and Maxwell’s knees gave out beneath him. He sank back to his chair in an
undignified heap. ‘Comfy?’ asked MacGuffin.

‘No,’
said Maxwell. ‘What have you done to my knees?’

‘A
temporary disassociation of the muscular synapses. It will pass.’

‘What
do you want from me?’ Maxwell asked in a quavery voice.

‘All
right,’ said MacGuffin. ‘Let us bandy words no more. You are Max Carrion, the
imagineer who brought chaos to Grimshaw.’

‘It
wasn’t my fault,’ complained Max. ‘I was trying to help.’

‘Well,
you shall help me. I require you to perform a service. I have restored you to
health and kept your whereabouts secret. Now you will repay my kindness. This
is fair, don’t you think?’

‘I
suppose so,’ said Maxwell, plucking at his knees. ‘Ungrateful bastard,’ said
MacGuffin. ‘Free breakfast thrown in and all.’

‘OK,
I’m sorry. What is it you want me to do?’ Maxwell shuddered. ‘Nothing sexual,
is it?’

‘How
dare you!’ MacGuffin’s nostrils flared. The chains on his nose-ring jingled.

‘No
offence meant,’ said Maxwell.

‘Nothing
sexual,’ said MacGuffin. ‘I have all the women I need. All the men too, as it
happens. And the sheep and—’

‘What
do you want me to do?’

‘In
Dave’s company you used the word “computer”.’

‘Dave
told you that?’

‘A
sparrow hawk has ears.’