Few Are Chosen_K'Barthan Series_Part 1

by M T McGuire

  “Alright, alright. Keep your hair on,” muttered The Pan. Big Merv was taking his role a little too seriously for his liking. As he stomped up the stairs in his wake, he didn’t have to act to appear sullen.

  When they reached the bar where the rest of the search party had gathered, The Pan was relieved to see that the highest ranking among them was a corporal.

  “What are you doing here?” demanded Big Merv. “My squad has already searched these premises and as you can see,” he grabbed The Pan by the scruff of the neck and threw him to the floor in front of him, “we have been successful.”

  “Yessir! Congratulationssir!” said the corporal, saluting smartly.

  “This is the driver. I doubt the others are far away,” said Big Merv. “They have been captured already, I presume,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  “Nossir, we’re unable to make clear identifications but we believe the leader is a local businessman, Big Merv. The snurd used in the robberies is the same model as his and there is evidence it may belong to him, even though it’s registered in another name.”

  “How so?” asked Big Merv.

  “Wellsir,” the corporal was gabbling excitedly, “that would be on account of the fact that the vehicle was leased through a complicated succession of companies in a clear attempt to obscure the identity of the owner. But the Forensic Business Investigation Team is in the process of untangling them to find out who it is. My brother-in-law is a member and it’s only a matter of time.

  “You are sure of this?”

  The corporal hesitated. The Pan had to hand it to Big Merv, he made an uncomfortably realistic Grongle. Having seemed the antithesis of a natural actor he was, quite clearly, brilliant. He assumed just the right level of arrogance, spoke with a near-perfect Grongolian accent, and he was the right height of course. The Pan wondered why he had bothered with a career as a gangland boss when he could have been truly great on the stage. Then he remembered that there were limited roles available to a Swamp Thing, especially one the wrong colour. Even so, his acting put a new, intriguing inflection on what he had said, to Denarghi, about stories, spin, puff and not throwing people in the Dang unless he had to. Clearly the Big Merv The Pan knew wasn’t necessarily the real one.

  “Wellsir, they can’t be sure at this stage, but initial evidence points to Big Merv.”

  “Interesting,” said Big Merv showing no apparent sign of anxiety.

  “Yessir. The investigating team is awaiting a warrant to search his property and they have been examining his assets closely. Under questioning, members of his staff have identified the snurd the police brought down as his.” The Pan winced at the words ‘brought down’ but no-one noticed. “Big Merv has no alibi for the time of the robbery and in his continued absence there is speculation that he owned the snurd which was destroyed yesterday.”

  This was bad news. The Pan knew that Big Merv had kept the identity of the MK II’s owner suitably obscure – on paper, at any rate. Pity it hadn’t worked.

  “This Big Merv,” said Big Merv, his authoritative tone faltering noticeably for the first time, “what of him?”

  “It seems that he has done a bunk, sir, suggesting guilt. If he is not the leader of the gang, he must have realised how his snurd was being used. He has been blacklisted, accordingly, so it’s only a matter of time before he is taken.”

  Big Merv nodded.

  “Would you like us to take your prisoner back with us?” asked the corporal, helpfully.

  “What and claim my reward? I don’t think so!” sneered Big Merv. “My squad will be here in a minute and when they arrive I will send him with them. Now get on your way and stop wasting time or I will have you on report before you can say, ‘Lord Vernon Kicks Arse!’”

  “Yessir,” said the corporal and with that, the Grongles left.

  “Arnold above,” Big Merv sank down onto the nearest stool, pulling the rubber face off as he did so and flinging it onto the table in disgust. “That was a close one! You think fast for a slippery little bleeder.”

  “That’s why I am a slippery little bleeder,” said The Pan, adding as an afterthought, “thank you, I think.”

  “’S nothing,” he handed over The Pan’s loot bag, “here. ’S yours.”

  “Not all of it,” said The Pan rummaging around for the box. He paused before handing it over. It was similar to his thimble. Had it been made by the same person? He turned it over, looking for a mark. Stuff this good was usually signed somewhere.

  Nope. Nothing.

  Hmm, maybe inside? He opened it.

  “Oi!” shouted Big Merv. “Don’t open that effing box! We made a deal!”

  Oops! He tried to close it at once, nipping a carelessly placed finger.

  “Ouch! Sorry.” To his immense surprise, Big Merv laughed.

  “’S OK. Most likely he was talkin’ about the safety deposit box so I’ve broke my word when I chucked that outta the window.”

  A short silence. They were both wondering if it would affect their payment.

  “I suspect we still have the important bit,” said The Pan, with a smile.

  A shrug from Big Merv.

  “Yeh.”

  The Pan held up the box, still open. He didn’t want to give it up. It went with the thimble. And he liked it; and he had an idea. He rummaged in his pockets and took out a stub of pencil and a piece of paper. It was the one which had been inside the thimble, originally – which was gradually disintegrating – so if the thimble and the box were a pair, and he believed they were, the paper probably belonged there anyway, where it would be safe.

  “What you doin’?” asked Big Merv.

  “Nothing major, just larking about,” said The Pan.

  “Well don’t.”

  “Oh come on.” He held up the paper for Big Merv to read. On the blank side, it now bore the inscription: ‘Stolen by the Mervinettes in return for amnesty for all misdemeanours.’ With the date of the robbery underlined.

  Big Merv was sceptical. “No-one’s gonna fall for that.”

  “You never can tell,” said The Pan, “someone might.” He folded up the paper, dropped it inside the box and closed the lid.

  “An’ what’s gonna happen when your old geezer checks I’ve kept to the deal?”

  “You’ve just said the deal concerned opening the safety deposit box.”

  “Maybe but—you great plank! Give it me.” Big Merv took it from The Pan’s outstretched hand and failed to open it.

  “What’ve you done, you muppet? ’S stuck.” He handed it back.

  “No it isn’t.” The Pan took the box from Big Merv and opened it to demonstrate, “See?”

  They were interrupted by a polite cough from the bar behind them, which caused The Pan to close the box rapidly. It was Ada.

  “We open in a minute or two, and when that happens, you two should be out of sight. But first, a little something for the shock, dear?” she asked. The Pan nodded. He glanced down at his feet. Ah yes.

  “Something for the ball and chain would be good too,” he added.

  Trev went and found the lump hammer and chisel from earlier and handed them to The Pan who handed them straight to Big Merv.

  “You seem to have a knack for this,” he gestured to the shackle, “would you help me with mine?”

  “You spanner,” muttered Big Merv removing it with the same swift ease as he’d removed his own.

  Ada glided over to them with a tray. It contained two rounds of cheese sandwiches, with – for The Pan – and without – for Big Merv – Gladys’ home-made pickle and two pints of special extra-strength beer. There was also a packet of crisps to keep Humbert away from their sandwiches if required.

  “Perhaps you should come upstairs to the flat now, dears,” said Ada. “You are both,” she stressed the ‘both’, “far too conspicuous to stay out here.”

  “Yer,” said Gladys from behind the bar, “I reckons it would be best if you two wasn’t ’ere. Go an’ finish yer sandwiches
and Our Trev’ll be along with some normal togs for Mister Merv.” The Pan was impressed to hear her use Big Merv’s proper underworld title. “Go on, now! Away with you!” she said, and, sandwiches and beers in hand, Big Merv and The Pan allowed themselves to be shooed upstairs to the kitchen in Gladys, Ada and Trev’s first-floor apartment.

  Chapter 54

  In the warmth of Gladys, Ada and Their Trev’s kitchen, The Pan and Big Merv munched their sandwiches in silence. Big Merv’s rubber face lay mutely on the table between them. For all of the size and scariness of his ex-boss, The Pan was, for the moment, relaxed and at ease, although appearances suggested Big Merv was not.

  “You OK?” The Pan asked him.

  A dejected shrug.

  “Nah mate, not really. That scrote Denarghi killed two of my best men and now I get home and find I’m a GBI, so I can’t do nothin’ about it. I’ve been insulted an’ I don’t like that. When people insult me, they pay. Except that what with the blummin’ state lifting everything I own, making him pay’s gonna be hard. That little smecker’ll get away with this scot-free coz I can’t afford the info I’d need to top him myself, let alone take a contract out on him,” he thumped his fist on the table. “Arnold’s conkers! If I had my way I’d find his weak spot quick smart and then, I swear to The Prophet, we’d see who’s an effin’ winner.”

  “I thought you said it was all an act and you didn’t really kill people!”

  “I said I don’t kill ’em unless I have to. That ain’t the same!”

  “Well, I wouldn’t advise going after Denarghi—although, I can understand why you’re tempted,” said The Pan. He knew a part of him would thank Big Merv if he did, on the grounds that anyone offering to shorten the list of people who wanted to kill him could go right ahead; the same part which was almost relieved, in many respects, that Frank and Harry would no longer be featuring in his life. On the other hand, it was a very small part of him which had these thoughts and one the rest of him didn’t listen to very often.

  For all their obvious animosity towards him, The Pan didn’t like Frank and Harry’s departure any more than his boss, but Big Merv seemed to think being on the wrong side of the law was an automatic guarantee of moral fibre. It must have been a substantial culture shock to him to discover the modern truth.

  “I ain’t tempted, I’m gonna do it. I’ll have to bide my time coz the scumbag’s ruined me, but I’m gonna get that little scrote. D’you know how long it takes to build up a business like mine?”

  The Pan had a good idea but merely shook his head.

  “Years. That’s how long. And when I get the satisfaction of icing Denarghi then—and only then—all this palaver might be worth it. One day, mate, you wait and see.”

  “Well, look on the bright side, you’ll have one million Grongolian,” said The Pan. “The old man hasn’t paid us yet. When he has and you have that behind you, maybe you can think about going after Denarghi. I’d still consider it carefully, though, if I was you, unless you’re going to do it yourself. Even one million Grongolian won’t get you far against the kind of resources the Resistance has to play with. Anyway, most of the contract killers work for them now.”

  “Yeh. Fair point. Fanciful one, and all, believing your old gimmer’s gonna come through with that kinda money. I haven’t built up one of the biggest businesses in Ning Dang Po on dreams and promises. I deal with reality and facts. Always have done. And the dosh ain’t gonna be much use to me anyhow is it? I’m blacklisted. Everything I own belongs to the blummin’ state.”

  “You’ll get used to it. You’ll be amazed how much you can own without them finding out. Who’s to know who a few hundred grand in used notes belongs to. You can buy a new identity.”

  “I ain’t the type for hiding my dough in a tin under the bed. Money’s for spending or investing. And I’ll be lucky to last long enough to buy a new moniker. There’s a lot of people in this town’d like to see me go down. ’S trouble with being the boss. A lot of jealous men wanna fill your shoes. Comes with the territory.”

  The Pan felt sorry for Big Merv. He knew what it was like to be an outcast and he knew how it felt to be unique, not that it would be safe to admit why. He felt a sense of comradeship, even grudging loyalty towards him. He would never know if the episode on the edge of the River Dang that night had been an act, like Big Merv had told Denarghi, but Arnold knew it had felt real enough at the time, real enough to give him flashbacks. But perhaps the moment had come to forgive and forget. Big Merv had given him a chance then, spared his life and subsequently, for the most part, listened when it mattered.

  The old man had been right, Big Merv was straightforward and honest and he had principles. He would be a good man, well, Thing, in a tight spot. The Pan gestured to the rubber face on the table.

  “You have a disguise and it’s pretty convincing. I’m beginning to understand why it was so easy for you and the lads to get into the bank.”

  “Yeh and without it I’m one of the best-known faces in Ning Dang Po. I ain’t gonna blend in, son.”

  “C’mon Merv, this isn’t like you, you’re a ...” Should he mention genus? No, “Man of action. Where’s your get up and go?” The Swamp Thing glowered at him.

  “Looks like it got up and went don’it?” he said sourly. “What’s the point? It’s my own fault! I’ve brought it on myself. Stiffed by my own vanity. That’s what I am! I could have made it clear I weren’t connected with the gang, very clear. I left it cloudy coz I liked the attention. There’s plenty of women out there who like a bank robber and not many who like a Swamp Thing, even a Swamp Thing who’s a powerful businessman.”

  “I hear you, Merv,” said The Pan, “you’re only human, or at least ...” he stopped, unsure as to how he should finish the sentence. Big Merv glared at him a little harder. He was going to have to find a way of getting the Swamp Thing issue out into the open. “Look, what I mean is, I’m in a similar situation, women don’t find any of my disguises very appealing and unless I want to practise my evasive skills, it’s tricky to leave home without them.”

  Big Merv nodded.

  “What about some of my girls?”

  “The Big Ms?”

  “Yeh. I reckon they liked the bloke with the shades and the cigar, although the pin-striped suit geezer made ’em nervous. Too establishment for girls like that.”

  “Too establishment! He was pure gangster. I modelled him on you without the ...” Probably best not to mention antennae yet, “On you.”

  “Nah, you were too understated, mate! That suit was the wrong type of classy! I look like a gangster, you looked like a politician. I can tell you for nothin’, a girl like that ain’t gonna trust a politician. With yer first look though, you coulda had any of ’em.”

  The Pan was slightly taken aback.

  “Well, um, they are very friendly and helpful with advice but one, you can’t mix business and pleasure, and two,” The Pan blushed, it was difficult to find a tactful way to say that some of them were old enough to be his mother and the ones that weren’t, his grandmother, “they’re not my type.”

  Big Merv grinned.

  “Fair enough. So what now? Do we sit tight and wait for the old fella to come through with the dough?”

  “I guess.”

  “You think he’s gonna?”

  “We have his loot.”

  “How long’ll it take?”

  “Search me. I’ll have to ask Gladys or Ada when the pub closes.”

  “It’s gonna be tough if he takes his time. No-one normal lasts more than a month on the blacklist without a lotta cash,” said Big Merv.

  “I have. Five years and counting—and you’ve seen how much cash I have.”

  “Yeh,” and to The Pan’s surprise, he laughed, “sweet eff all. ’S my point though! You ain’t normal.”

  “No?” said The Pan.

  “Nah.”

  “Neither are you.” Oops that had come out sounding far more belligerent than intended.

/>   “You talkin’ about my colour?” asked Big Merv, menacingly.

  Time to grasp the nettle. The Pan concentrated on the tone of his voice, keeping it neutral.

  “Yes,” he said with a calm he didn’t feel, “I am talking about your colour. Not out of disrespect, but because it makes you conspicuous, and you’re right, that makes you vulnerable. Since we’re stuck with each other until the old man pays us, it’s an issue we’re going to have to address.”

  Life on the blacklist was harsh. They both knew Big Merv was going to need help finding his feet and The Pan was the only person who could give him that help. To make sure, he checked the antennae. Yep, they were waving backwards and forwards in thought. Good. He said nothing more, leaving his erstwhile boss room to think. Eventually, The Big Thing nodded.

  “Fair enough.”

  “You’ll be OK here, for now. Gladys and Ada are the height of discretion. They won’t be asking you any questions or talking about you either. They like a quiet life. They’re not ones for attracting attention.”

  Another nod.

  “Did you make any plans for this?” The Pan hoped Big Merv had some cash, otherwise, if the old man didn’t come through with the money, they’d be picking pockets or scamming tourists by the end of the week, both of them.

  “A couple, not enough though.”

  The conversations lapsed and they carried on eating their sandwiches. The Pan needed to think. Big Merv needed somebody to help him and he’d offered because it made sense that person should be him. However, as a long-term arrangement, helping Big Merv get by could be tricky. Yes, having a comrade-in-arms would make a pleasant change, but that implied friendship between them. The Pan had a great deal of respect for Big Merv but he wasn’t an actual friend exactly, not even so much of an acquaintance, more someone he was very scared of who was stuck in his life. Then there was the day-to-day business of combining GBI status and well ... living. It was complicated enough on his own, let alone as a pair.

  The Pan sighed. Naturally, the heist had provoked a security clampdown across the Grongolian world. It would be sensible to have an ally until the heat died down, even one he was really scared of, especially if the Grongles had realised he was the Mervinettes’ getaway man. And it stood to reason that if The Pan was really scared of Big Merv, other people would be, too; the kinds of people who would usually have tried to beat him up would now take one look at Big Merv and leave him alone. It depended if Big Merv could be persuaded to trust him, of course.