by M T McGuire
Blimey! This was all a bit deep.
“Er, I love my job, that makes me pretty jammy—most people don’t, after all.” She tried to lighten things up, “Most people do their jobs to earn money so they can do the stuff they want to do, but they end up never doing it because they’re working all the time.” Sir Robin adopted a disapproving expression. Hmm, he must be expecting a serious answer, then. “OK. Honestly?”
“If you please.”
“I get to help people sell themselves or what they do. If that means they can give up some dead-end career they hate and be happy doing something they enjoy it must be a good thing. In the grand scheme it’s probably not that important, but it feels,” she shrugged, “warm and fuzzy.”
He chuckled and started to walk again.
“Do you think, you will be in the same line of work in ten years’ time?” he asked.
“I hope not. For starters I’d like to be promoted and secondly it’d be very boring to do the same thing forever. Who knows what I’ll be doing by then?” She gave him her best appraising stare, “Are you interviewing me?”
As he smiled his gold tooth flashed in the sodium lights.
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly. Partially then?”
“No. I was merely curious. I must apologise, I didn’t wish to be over inquisitive. I am interested,” he waved one arm casually, “you wouldn’t mind then, if your life changed?”
“It’d be a bit annoying right now, because I’m learning so much—not only my trade but, you know, about dealing with people, being tactful and diplomatic that kind of thing. If I lost my job tomorrow, I’d be gutted, but I’d get over it, I expect. Changes are always interesting, even scary ones, although I prefer to initiate them myself!”
“Yeeees.” He sounded a little doubtful, as if he was the bearer of bad news.
“You think my life’s about to change, don’t you?”
“All things are possible,” he said.
She eyed him with her best pointy-brained expression.
“You believe it though,” a statement of fact since he obviously did, “are you psychic?”
“No. I’m not.” Emphasis on the ‘I’m’ though, as if somebody else was. Strange. Who? “Fate can be an odd creature.”
“Yeh. I tried and tried to get my career started and nothing happened until I gave up on it. I guess the trick is not so much coping with things changing as not worrying,” she thought for a moment, “and being happy with what you have, too, I guess.”
Why was she telling him all this?
“Wise words,” said Sir Robin.
“Not really. Sensible, more like.” Ruth was tired, her nerves were pretty much shot and the old boy was so easy to talk to. “Those blokes on the train.”
“Yes?”
“You asked if I know them.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t—but would it sound mad if I told you I’m beginning to think they’re following me?”
A sharp intake of breath which surprised her. She glanced at him. He was concerned.
“You’ve noticed them before?” he asked her.
“Loads of times.”
“I see,” he said in that patient manner, like a doctor listening to a long-winded patient. Had he seen them too, or more to the point had they seen him somewhere else, somewhere a long time ago, perhaps, before Ruth had met him and before he had grown old? What would he have been, a general? No, unlikely. A captain of industry, a politician? Somebody important enough to command their respect, even scare them? Maybe.
“Is that a bad thing?”
He cocked his head on one side and looked at her quizzically.
“Perhaps.”
“Who ...?” No. Start again, “What are they?”
He seemed almost proud of her.
“Now that’s an astute question. It’s a long story,” he said.
“I have time.”
“Hmm.” A nod.
“Are they from this planet?”
“Oh yes,” a pause, “in a roundabout way.” They had reached the door of her flat and he stopped, even though officially she was carrying a bag for him and his flat was down at the end of the street. He took it from her. “Please allow me to walk you home tonight, Ruth. These bags are very light and you look tired; you need to get some sleep.” She nearly giggled, partly because she was mightily relieved, on this particular evening, not to have to walk back up the street on her own and partly because sometimes, he behaved as if he was her dad. Or would that be her grandad?
“Sir Robin, can I tell you something in confidence?”
“My dear girl, of course you can.”
“Three months ago one of them followed me, a different one, not those two,” she shuddered, “I think he wanted to kidnap me. He was grim.” Unconsciously she hugged her arms across her chest, as if to comfort herself. It was the way he watched her that made her realise what she was doing. “He was tall, and even though it was about, well ... about this time of night, he was wearing sunglasses, and he had this evil voice. Most of the time, I think they’re watching me, following me, making sure they know where I am, but I don’t know why. I wondered if they were here to protect me from him.”
She told him how she had hidden in the bushes from the first one and how he had searched for her.
“He called me ‘Chosen One’,” she explained. “He said,” and she did an impression of the stranger’s voice, “you will not evade me forever, Chosen One. I will find you.” So I know it can’t be me he’s looking for, because if I were Chosen, I’d realise wouldn’t I? Somebody would tell me. But I keep seeing them, and on the one hand I’m too frightened to go up to them and explain, on the other, I’m afraid that if I don’t, he—Mr Darcy’s Evil Twin—may find me.” She felt on the brink of tears. “I know I should ignore it all and eventually they’ll either go away or tell me what they want, but it’s so hard to keep it together, to carry on being normal. I’m scared I’m cracking up.”
“Quite the contrary, I’d say, you seem perfectly in control of your faculties in the face of a great deal of provocation. You realise, don’t you, that if you would like to have a chat I am always ready to listen?”
The authoritative I-have-people-who-will-fix-this tone again.
She nodded.
“I would.” Her voice sounded small.
“Capital!” He looked at his watch, “but now is not the place or the time,” he said kindly. “First, a decent night’s sleep will do you the power of good. Would you do me the honour of dropping round for tea tomorrow? Say, six o’clock?”
“I can’t—I’m managing an event, a concert at the Barbican.”
“Oh dear. Are you happy to wait a day before we sort this out?” He spoke with total confidence as if a simple conversation between the two of them would fix everything. Whether or not it would, Ruth felt considerably happier. Perhaps her life wasn’t out of control after all. Yes. It would be OK. Sir Robin would be able to help. She rallied.
“Would you like a ticket? I can get you a freebie if you like, Lucy and Nigel are coming.”
“Please, not Nigel,” said Sir Robin, “when will she stop seeing him? He is quite insufferable.”
“I know, but Lucy’s lovely and at the moment he sort of comes with the territory.”
“Yes, I appreciate that.”
“If I got two tickets you could bring a friend.”
“You are kind—and I thank you—but no.”
“Could I come round the night after?”
“Why of course. Splendid! Let’s make it a date.” He made to go and then stopped, “Ruth, don’t worry yourself, you have nothing to fear.” Again a reassuring aura of absolute confidence. He smiled, waved and strode off down the street. She watched until he had gone into his flat on the corner and waited until the light went on and she saw him silhouetted in the window as he drew the curtains, before she closed the door and went to bed.
Chapter 48
The Res
istance searched the Mervinettes for weapons, even though they knew none of them were armed. The Pan was glad he’d slipped the thimble into his boot. Then they were taken straight back to the woods The Pan had flown through originally, but via a circuitous route through other people’s gardens. Due to the number of Grongles searching for them, it took them most of the night to make the two or three mile journey. On several occasions they had to lie low for what felt like hours, while Grongle patrols passed.
In theory, he and the Resistance were on the same side, inasmuch as they both wanted to see the fall of the current regime in K’Barth. However, The Pan doubted this would make the end results of being captured by them any different to being captured by the Grongles. Indeed, if anything, he suspected the Resistance would be more thorough with their questioning. They were similarly disciplined, well trained and fanatically devoted to their cause, and while neither party showed any evidence of a sense of humour, the Resistance appeared to be even less prepared to relax and enjoy themselves than the Grongles. The Pan, who regarded humour as evidence of sensitivity, intelligence and all round civilisation, considered this a bad thing.
The odds were there wouldn’t be much reasoning with the Resistance. He’d also heard they were more than able to match the Grongles when it came to beating or even killing their own to punish disobedience or failure. If they were prepared to kill their own troops, The Pan held little hope for his chances. He’d never had an easy relationship with authority and he knew the type of blind obedience demanded by the Resistance, even as a put-on act for a day or two, was beyond him.
Then there was their thoroughness. They were as violent as the Grongles towards their prisoners but more calculated in their intent. Most likely they’d administer the same kind of beating as the Grongles, but ignore him when he first pretended to crack. Then, when they were sure he wasn’t faking, they’d write down what he said and when they thumped him the next day they’d write that down too and compare notes. They’d keep doing that for a week or two and only stop when he produced the same story for several days in a row. To be able to convince the Resistance he was spilling his guts without actually doing so would take every ounce of The Pan’s powers of concentration and mental energy. Levels of energy and concentration he couldn’t hope to command if he was concussed, drugged or confused. Then there were the other three Mervinettes. What would they say? The four of them had to tell the same story and it had to be credible.
By the time The Pan’s party arrived back in the woods it was getting light and the thimble in his boot pressing against his instep was making his whole foot ache. Their armed escorts took them to a clearing, just out of sight of the road, where they were met by a high-ranking Resistance leader. She was the type of tall, leggy blonde The Pan usually went for, but she would have to be psychotic to have joined the Resistance. She ordered them to line up, took four scarves from her pocket and blindfolded her prisoners.
“I am Lieutenant Deirdre Arbuthnot. I am fighting for the freedom of this country and I don’t have time for games or tricks. Move, and you die.”
“Is this not a firing squad then?” asked The Pan.
“That includes moving your mouth,” she snapped.
“Sorry, sweetie, my colleague ain’t that smart,” said Big Merv.
“That goes for you too, swamp guy,” she shouted. “Don’t make me ask you to shut up again unless you want a bullet in your brain. Which one of you is the driver?”
Nobody replied.
“Answer me!” she yelled.
Another long silence. The Pan assumed that, like him, neither Frank, Harry or Big Merv felt like cooperating. After all, she hadn’t asked nicely and she’d told them to stay quiet. No-one would want to risk speaking and getting a bullet in the brain.
“If nobody answers my question by the time I count to five, I’ll kill one of you every fifteen seconds until somebody does!” she bellowed.
A minute of carnage and then oblivion. Oh dear.
“One.”
“Blimey, she’s got a set of lungs on ’er,” whispered Big Merv.
“Shut up! She’ll kill us,” whispered The Pan.
“Looks like she’s gonna do that anyway.”
“Well, don’t encourage her to kill us more quickly.”
“What did you say?” boomed the officer.
“For heaven’s sake keep it down,” said The Pan standing up and taking off his blindfold. “If you go on yelling like that, we’re all going to get shot! There are Grongle patrols all over the place and they can probably hear you in Hamgee!”
“Yeh, and while you’re at it darlin’, make up your mind!” said Big Merv standing up and taking his blindfold off, too. Frank and Harry followed suit. “Are you going to kill us if we talk or if we don’t talk? It’d be good to know.”
“See, at the moment it ain’t clear,” said Frank.
“Yeh,” said Big Merv, “you’ve a thing or two to learn, girl. In a ‘situation’ it’s important your victims are crystal clear what you wanna know. Otherwise you might kill ’em before they’ve told you everything and miss something important, see?”
“Yeh. ’S right,” said Harry.
“Will you shut UP!” she yelled. “And you,” she shouted at her colleagues, “how come you just stood there and let them move?” There was a general mumbling and shuffling of feet which stopped abruptly when she felled the nearest guard by hitting him around the side of the head with the butt of her sub-machine gun. “Idiots!” she grumbled as the guard climbed unsteadily to his feet and she reverted her attention to the Mervinettes. “You prisoners are allowed to answer any questions I ask but you are not allowed to talk spontaneously to me or each other, do you understand?” Big Merv, Frank, Harry and The Pan nodded. “AND it’s Deirdre. Not ‘love’, ‘honey’, ‘sweetie’ or ‘darling’, got it?”
“Well, um, Deirdre—” began The Pan.
“That’s Ms Deirdre to you, scumbag or Lieutenant Arbuthnot.”
“But you said—” Deirdre gave The Pan a withering glare. Go ahead! it said. The Pan cleared his throat nervously and started again.
“Right, er, sorry, Ms Deirdre. Well, er, you might want to keep your voice down a bit,” he said.
She strode over to him and put her nose to his. The Pan noted that allowing people their personal space clearly wasn’t her thing.
“Alright, wise guy,” she said through gritted teeth and she stuck the muzzle of her sub-machine gun under his chin. As she did so one of the other Resistance fighters grabbed his arms and pinned them behind his back. Why did this always happen to him? He wasn’t the leader, or the largest or the bravest – in fact he was totally insignificant compared to the others, so subjugating him shouldn’t prove anything. Why was he always the psycho magnet? Size? Could be. He was small enough to thump, tall enough for it to look impressive. Whatever it was, they always picked on him.
“I’m going to aerate your brain if you don’t answer this question,” she told him. “Which one of you is the driver?”
The Pan made eye contact; her eyes were blue, light blue, and they were staring into his with the zealous intensity of extremists everywhere. She was true, dyed-in-the-wool Resistance. Making eye contact with a human so apparently devoid of any humanity was not something The Pan had spine enough to do for long. Her icy gaze held his, contemptuous and uncompromising. He managed to stare back at her long enough to say, “I am,” before his gaze slid away from her face. Noooo! Not that way! He was looking at her chest. Her vest top was stretched tightly across what Big Merv would have called, ‘a well-stacked rack’. Mmm, they were nice; rounded and firm – the perfect size to take one in each hand – with the kind of cleavage a man could dive into and drown in. She was sweating, not much, but just enough to make them glisten. “Holy Arnold,” said The Pan. That was some of the Creator’s best work, right there. He was half hypnotised by the movement as they rose and fell with her breathing and his mind was wandering in absolutely the wrong direction. Arno
ld’s pants, what was he doing? Now she’d realise he was ogling her bosoms and thump him for being a pervert. Yeh and he’d deserve it, too.
She made no move to take the gun away. The Pan tried to avoid looking into those scary eyes, or that scary cleavage, again. After a few seconds of indecision he decided to look at her right ear.
“Well, Ms Deirdre, I’ve owned up now, so you can remove your gun from in my face,” he said. Oh no no no! What was he thinking? Why did his mouth always go into action so far ahead of his brain. He knew she was going to thump him now. Mentally, he prepared himself for the pain when her fist, or worse, the butt of her gun, made contact with his head. Perhaps that was why it was such a shock, and hurt so much, when she punched him in the stomach, instead. The unseen accomplice holding his arms let go, and he sank to the ground, winded. He felt sick. She had known exactly where to punch for maximum effect, but then she was Resistance trained, so he supposed she would. Somebody was making a noise like an asthmatic duck and he had a nasty feeling it was him.
Two more guards ran forward, swept the earth and leaves away from a hidden trapdoor and opened it.
Deirdre hauled The Pan to his feet by the scruff of his neck and gestured with the gun.
“In,” she said.
The Pan peered into the hole. There were steps disappearing into complete darkness. His knees were shaking far too much to do dark stairs without light.
“What? In there?”
“Yes.”
“First?” he asked weakly, “without a torch? What do you think I am, an owl?”
She turned to Big Merv.
“You! Swamp boy! Are you the leader?”
Big Merv drew himself up to his full height.
“Yeh, that’s right. I’m Big Merv, not ‘you there’, ‘swamp boy’, ‘swamp guy’, ‘swampy’ or—if you wanna live to see tomorrow—‘slimy’. In fact to most people it’s ‘Sir’ but I’ll allow you to call me ‘Mr Merv’,” he said, exuding a palpable aura of menace which made everyone take a step backwards except Deirdre, who didn’t appear to notice.
“Is this little smecker always so annoying?” she asked, gesturing to The Pan.