by M T McGuire
He concentrated his mind on the Parrot, his room and the bed and squeezed the thimble over his thumb.
There was a loud sucking sound and the three fittest members of the pursuing Grongle squad reached the edge of the roof just in time to hear a loud pop and see The Pan of Hamgee vanish into thin air.
Chapter 59
Far below The Pan stood two figures, looking up.
“Blimey!” said Big Merv as he watched his remaining colleague launch himself out over the battlements.
“Blimey indeed,” said the old man as The Pan disappeared. “He’s a resourceful lad, your driver. If that came off it was pure genius.”
Big Merv shrugged. He agreed and he was surprised to find it made him feel proud, almost paternal. “Yeh. He’s a good man. ’S a fine line between genius and madness, though, mate. You really reckon he’s gonna be waiting for us at the Parrot?”
“I sincerely hope so. If he isn’t we’ll have to find him, and fast.” Big Merv subjected him to his best felt-tip green stare. What was this ‘we’ all of a sudden? “And you are far too conspicuous to stay here. Once we get back, we will have to think about how we can hide you.”
“Hide me? I ain’t hiding,” snapped Big Merv, the ‘we’ thing forgotten for the moment. Hiding was for big puffs, people like The Pan. Big Merv might be a lot of things but he wasn’t one of them.
“Yes you are! Lord Vernon’s after your head on a pole! You’re one of the most wanted felons in the nation.”
“So? I ain’t the hiding type.”
“My dear man! You can’t stay knocking about here or you won’t be the living type—Arnold’s prophecies, book seven verse sixty three: ‘He who turns and runs away, lives to fight a better way’.”
That was wrong, even Big Merv knew that and he was a creature who occasionally, even if it was only very occasionally and only when all other avenues had been exhausted, chucked people into the River Dang, with concrete boots on. So, not a good Nimmist, then. Not really.
“’S not right. It’s fight another day.”
“Quite so, old chap but my version is nearer to the truth. You’re a jolly useful type in a tight spot and that means we need your services.”
Oi, oi? What services? Big Merv was an old hand at this kind of stuff and knew when to proceed with caution.
“It’ll cost yer,” he told the old boy. That should dampen his enthusiasm. Big Merv wasn’t a political animal. Politics was for shysters as far as he was concerned, devious people, people with no principles. He was an honest, upstanding gangster.
“That won’t be a problem,” said the old man smoothly.
Arnold’s trollies, he was as up for it as ever. Never mind. It wasn’t as if the old gimmer hadn’t promised to pay well. Big Merv was nothing if not pragmatic. He’d wait until he knew what they wanted him to do, then he could tell them, with proper conviction, where to get off.
“Now, we should be getting back. Gladys and Ada will be worried about us.” Big Merv didn’t move. “We’ll want to see if your young friend’s escape plan worked,” he hesitated, “and you’ll have to stick with me if you want to see a penny more of your one million,” the old boy added, with a knowing smile.
By The Prophet’s Y-fronts!
The Pan had been right. He was a manipulative old toad. In this case, though, he was a manipulative old toad with lots of money. Big Merv’s money.
Bummer.
Anyway, he thought about the face he was wearing. A cheap movie prop. It was good, but before long it would wear out and then, as The Pan had tactfully explained to him, he would be a tad distinctive. Now he was a GBI Big Merv didn’t give much for his shelf life without help and this old git, he looked like he’d been a GBI even longer than The Pan. Probably best to stick with him then, for now.
“Needs must,” he muttered to himself and with a sigh, The Big Thing followed the old man down the dawn streets.
****
The Pan landed with a thud. That was the first wrong thing, the second was the absence of a bed and then the third, of course, was the pain. He rolled several times and crashed into a wall.
“Ouch,” he said. This didn’t feel right, quite apart from the fact he was in an office and very definitely not in his bedroom. He stood up, or at least, half up. Then something cold and metallic touched his neck, a jolt of white hot pain shot through him and everything went dark.
Chapter 60
Later, The Pan awoke. He was where he’d landed except he had the mother of all headaches. Slowly he stood up and looked around.
He was in a penthouse suite, set back from the castle walls and high enough above them for the windows along one side to afford a panoramic view over the roof to the city. He realised, from the view, that he was still in the Security Headquarters. Oh dear. He also realised he must have been unconscious for most of the day because it was dark and through the windows he could see the night sky and the lights of Ning Dang Po as they twinkled and shone. If he hadn’t been so frightened he would have thought it was beautiful. The room was lit by spotlights throwing pools of bright, white light which dramatically contrasted with the surrounding darkness. Set in the wall furthest away from him was a medieval-style inglenook fireplace and to one side of it, facing outwards into the room, was a desk. The Pan could make out a number of items laid out neatly across the blotter, including his hat and the keys to his snurd which must have been taken from him earlier while he was out cold. To his dismay, he realised the thimble had gone.
Arnold’s pants.
He would never see that girl again.
Right. Like it mattered. He was still inside the Security HQ and unless he rectified that he was never going to see anyone again who wasn’t a Grongle.
He looked around him. This suite was more than penthouse. Judging by the books and the general decor it was the best. Top class. All of it.
Marvellous. That would be Lord Vernon’s then, wouldn’t it? So these were probably the last moments of his life. His worst fears were confirmed when the door opened and the owner walked in flanked by two guards.
“At last, The Pan of Hamgee.” Lord Vernon had the kind of soft, quiet-yet-carrying voice which can only be achieved through a lifetime’s indulgence in unspeakable evil – and lots of practice. “I have been waiting for this day.” He strolled towards his prisoner, smoothing his black suede gloves over his hands as he went.
The guards grabbed The Pan and he felt them tighten their grip as his nemesis approached.
His fear engulfed him like a tidal wave. He had to escape! He tried to break free. One of them punched him in the ribs but that only made him struggle harder. As he thrashed and writhed in blind panic he heard the soft voice cut through the sounds of his cries and the shouting of the guards.
“Not like that, you imbeciles,” said Lord Vernon. The Pan felt a hand lock round his throat and he was flung forcefully against the side of a filing cabinet and held there. He noticed the volume of the sound as he made contact more than the pain of the impact and, luckily, it brought him to his senses.
This was not the time to panic. It wouldn’t help. Arnold knew if he had ever needed every last one of his wits about him, it was now. Wriggling about like an idiot wasn’t going to achieve anything; it would only waste energy, energy which might be far more profitably used staying alive or even better, running away, if there was a chance.
Lord Vernon was breathless, although whether from anger or the excitement of catching up with his quarry after all those years of pursuit it was difficult to tell.
“My preference, would be to slit your throat, now, and watch you die,” he said. Hmm. Not a good start, “Although naturally, I had envisaged something a little more ...” he paused as he sought the right word, “interesting for us both than that. For the moment, at least, it seems you are more useful to me alive however, so ...” A theatrical sigh, “I must deny myself my sybaritic pleasures. I have some questions to ask, and when I am done, if I am satisfied you have answered me t
ruthfully, I may spare you.”
No. Not likely, unless The Pan was going to be indispensable. Hmm, how to arrange that?
“I find it hard to believe you’d ever spare me,” said The Pan’s mouth, taking the rest of him by surprise.
“Really? Why? Do tell.”
The Pan tried to shrug his shoulders but being held against the side of a filing cabinet by the neck made it difficult.
“You’ve spent years trying to catch up with me. After all that trouble, I can’t see you letting me walk away.”
How to play this? Probably not like that. It had been years though, thought The Pan.
“That is true, and yet, I assure you, if it transpires that you will serve me better alive, you will live ... Unless I give in to temptation and decide that the cost of maintaining you is disproportionately high, in which case, I will kill you, slowly and painfully, now.”
“What if I don’t want to serve you?” Arnold no! Why couldn’t he ever shut up? Even for him that was stupid. He was talking tall, of course, because he was utterly, comprehensively petrified, but even so, he wished his mouth wouldn’t run off like that without waiting for his brain. He could always let himself turn into a gibbering wreck, he supposed. There was a strong argument to suggest a bit of gibbering might be preferable at this point.
Lord Vernon smiled, without any hint of warmth.
“What you want is immaterial. By one means or another, you will cooperate fully, if I require it.” He stopped for a moment, to let The Pan’s imagination provide its own explanation for the meaning of ‘one means or another’. “Incidentally, I would advise against flippancy if you wish to keep your levels of maintenance ... tenable. Perhaps you do not fully understand your situation. Allow me to make it clear. Not only is your very existence treason but you have further flouted the authority of the state by joining a criminal gang.”
Oh marvellous. Just marvellous. It was inevitable, but The Pan was still disappointed that Lord Vernon knew about the bank robbing. And he’d taken the Mervinettes way too personally to let any of them go free. No. He either thought The Pan knew something or was about to ask him to do something unspeakable.
“It’s not my fault, what could I do? It was join or be thrown in the river. And I’m not the one to blame if your people can’t keep up!”
Uh-oh. That might have been a bad thing to say.
“If that is so,” murmured Lord Vernon menacingly, “then how is it that you are here now?”
The Pan felt the pressure on his windpipe increasing, but the idiot in him was still firmly in control of his centre of speech.
“Nothing to do with my driving. I jumped off a roof,” it said, before the rest of him could knock it out, drag it away from the wheel and tie it up in a corner. Oh Arnold! What in the name of The Prophet was he saying?
Lord Vernon breathed in and out, slowly and then laughed. A spine-chilling, humourless laugh which made the little hairs on The Pan’s neck stand to attention.
“I think you would prefer me to kill you now,” he said, “and yet, this merely underlines my suspicion, that you have knowledge that would be of benefit to me, which you are endeavouring to take to your grave. The Resistance may have bungled your capture—and they shall pay—but you and your master’s snurd were outclassed, by me, in mine. Now, your life is in my hands, a concept which, I appreciate, you may not be comfortable with, and you have a choice. You can listen to what I have to say, answer my questions and if I see a further use for you, I may spare your life. Or you can continue as you are and I will kill you in a way that will bring me immense pleasure, but which you will not enjoy. Which is it to be?”
It would do no harm to listen first, The Pan decided, who could tell what interesting information he might pick up and it would give him time to think of a plan. “I don’t want to die,” he said.
“And so?” asked Lord Vernon, squeezing his neck even harder.
“So, I’m listening,” he croaked. He hoped the Lord Protector would let go now because his grip was so tight there wasn’t enough oxygen. Big green blobs were beginning to appear round the edges of his field of vision.
“Excellent. I am glad we understand each other,” said Lord Vernon, taking off his sunglasses with his free hand. The Pan’s gaze travelled along the Lord Protector’s arm and into his face. The mesmerising grey eyes locked onto his blue ones and he tried to conceal his fear as the grip on his neck tightened some more, not much, but enough to make it obvious who was in control of the conversation. With difficulty, he swallowed.
Chances of keeping up eye contact? Zero. It was impossible to fully turn his head away with Lord Vernon’s hand round his throat, but his eyes slid sideways.
Having made the identity of the alpha male in the room abundantly clear, Lord Vernon let go and walked casually over to the window, where he gazed out over the city below.
The Pan slid to his knees and then flopped forward onto all fours where he spent a few moments concentrating on getting his breath back without audibly wheezing. A glance at the window confirmed that Lord Vernon was still ignoring him, standing with his back turned, ostensibly enjoying the panorama of Ning Dang Po. Gingerly, to avoid passing out, The Pan stood up. The guards watched him, warily.
He had to play this carefully, and to do that he had to be intelligent and adult. But Arnold in the skies, how to do that?
Chapter 61
In the absence of a better plan, The Pan took a deep breath and seized the initiative.
“I’d like to ask you something, Lord Vernon.” It was difficult to keep the frightened wobble out of his voice. Lord Vernon didn’t turn round but raised one arm a little, as stopping traffic and said,
“Speak.”
So condescending. So irritating. No, that’s what he was aiming to achieve. The Pan knew he had to stay calm and think rationally. He took another deep breath and tried to steady his voice.
“Why am I here?”
“Because your existence is treason,” said Lord Vernon, casually.
“But it doesn’t have to be, does it? I do what I do because it’s the only thing I can. You killed my family and blacklisted me. If you hadn’t, I’d just be an ordinary kid.”
“Unfortunately, Hamgeean, you will never be ordinary, as your presence here after five years on the blacklist should attest. I would have thought even you could understand this.”
“Why does everyone think I’m so special? Believe me, I just want to be normal and blend in, and if you left me alone that’s what I’d do.”
“At the risk of repeating myself—”
“But why bother?”
Lord Vernon turned round slowly.
“Because I can.”
OK. Not too much progress there then. Never mind. Press on. The Pan continued.
“What’s in it for you, though? I’m a pushover. It’s not as if I’m a worthy opponent.”
“And yet, at the wheel of a snurd, perhaps you are.”
That was some concession from a Grongle like Lord Vernon. The Pan managed to feel smug AND scared; now there was a new emotional combination.
“I thank you,” said The Pan, “but I still don’t understand any of this.”
“You pretend you do not know?” Sneering but intrigued. Good.
“I’m not pretending.”
“Perhaps, you are telling the truth. Anyone attempting to escape from here the way you did is either very ill-informed or very foolish.”
The Pan shrugged, “I’m probably both, but it might have worked.”
“No, it would not,” said Lord Vernon. “Since you have asked, I shall answer your question.” He flicked one wrist and the gold thimble appeared in the palm of his hand; a neat trick, which The Pan grudgingly admired. He had always been rubbish at sleight of hand at school, unlike pretty much everyone else, which meant he had felt it keenly. He wondered how it was done. “This is mine now,” said Lord Vernon.
In spite of his efforts to remain calm, The Pan was angry.
> “I don’t think so. You just happen to have it.”
Arnold’s snot, what was he doing? A good answer, but maybe a touch on the forceful side. This was a wimp versus psychopathic nutter situation. Inflaming the nutter was not a smart move. A touch more diplomacy – or maturity – was called for.
“Possession is nine tenths of the law.”
“But I have the moral high ground with my one tenth.”
“I think not. It belongs to the individual you stole it from. Perhaps you are thinking of trying to take it back,” he put the thimble in his pocket and faced The Pan, “please do, you will give me the perfect excuse.” He stood still, waiting, seemingly relaxed and yet radiating an aura of pent-up violence.
Hmm, scores on the doors? Lord Vernon, well off the mark, The Pan of Hamgee? Nope. Nothing yet.
“Let us continue,” said Lord Vernon, “originally you obstructed the course of justice.” The Pan bit back the urge to repeat the retort which had originally got him blacklisted.
“You tripped over me in the street, it was hardly obstruction.”
“Whether or not it was deliberate, it was obstruction and you further compounded it when you insulted me.”
“You nearly killed me; my father had to beg for my life.”
At the mention of The Pan’s father Lord Vernon advanced towards him. Even though there was nowhere to go, it took every ounce of self-control not to run. That had been an impressive reaction. The Pan made a mental note not to mention his father again.
“And here we come to the point! Your father,” Lord Vernon snarled angrily into his face, “was a renegade and a fool. He dared to stand in my way and now here are you, his son.”
Whoa there! Where had that come from? The Pan had spent five years avoiding the authorities and running away from Lord Vernon, how could that remotely be classed as standing in his way? Then again, it did answer one question; this wasn’t about him. Clearly, it was about his dad.
“Trust me, I would never knowingly stand in your way,” he said. Was it so difficult to understand how cowards worked, he wondered? “I’m not a mind reader; you’ll have to give me a steer. Tell me what I have to do to keep out of your way.”