Free The Garden of Unearthly Delights by Robert Rankin Page B

across the front. Maxwell had carved
the carpenter’s name into a fair approximation of the famous Rock-Ola lettering.
But the name FUTTUCK just didn’t have the same wop-bop-a-loo-bop ring to it.
    Maxwell
sighed deeply, looked upon all that he had made and found it good. Now he
re-covered the TV and set to erecting the posts and curtains which were to
screen it from the viewing public until the final moment of the first
commercial newscast. It was also imperative that Maxwell stand guard over his
wonder, to protect it from prying eyes and wandering hands.
     
     
    And so began the day for
Maxwell.
    And so
went the day.
    The
town square became busy, stallholders plied their wares, folk came and went,
children played. The grim red sun offered its mysterious light and Maxwell, his
labours done, sat and watched it all go on.
    It was
certainly a strange old business, watching these folk, dressed in the garb of
medieval peasants and living the lifestyle. To think that several generations
before, their ancestors had driven about in cars and enjoyed the benefits
brought by electricity; sat before real television and viewed news from every
part of the world.
    ‘I will
improve your lot,’ said Maxwell. ‘I, Max Carrion, Imagineer. You see if I
don’t.’
    And
then the day passed into afternoon and then towards evening. The stallholders
packed their remaining wares away and departed. And Maxwell began to grow
uneasy.
    There
had been no sign of Dayglo Hilyte and his zany.
    As the
town hall clock, a water-powered contrivance, struck five-thirty, Maxwell felt
those seeds of panic taking root in a stomach which had survived yet another
day upon the ingestion of parsnips alone.
    Folk
were now strolling into the square. They were all done up in their finest
attire. They had brought cushions, hampers of food, flasks of wine. They were
taking up positions before the curtains. They were evidently looking forward to
the broadcast.
    Maxwell
looked this way and that amongst them. Where was Dayglo Hilyte? Where was the
zany? ‘Hello.’
    Maxwell
turned.
    ‘Are
you Mr Carrion?’
    Maxwell
blinked and stared. ‘I am.’
    ‘I’m
Miss Tailier.’
    ‘Yes,’
said Maxwell. ‘Indeed.’
    She was
‘simply stunning’. Young and fresh and slim and shapely. Her face a most
vivacious instrument of expression. Great dark eyes fringed by curling lashes,
tiny upturned nose, wide and sensuous mouth. All framed by flocks of amber
curls.
    She
wore a black figure-hugger of a dress that almost reached her knees, and soft
gold slippers. Golden rings sheathed her elegant well-manicured fingers.
    ‘Miss
Tailier,’ said Maxwell, shaking the pale hand that was offered.
    ‘I’m
the new crumpet. You can call me Jenny.’
    ‘Jenny
Tailier. Jenny Tailier?’
    ‘Yes,
what about it?’
    ‘Oh
nothing.’ Maxwell shook his head. ‘Nothing at all.’
    ‘I was
supposed to meet Mr Hilyte at five-thirty. I’m a little late.’
    ‘He’s not
here,’ said Maxwell. ‘In fact, I have no idea what’s happened to him. Oh, hang
about.’
    Through
the growing crowd came the zany. He waved to the right and left, uttered
greetings, but as Maxwell watched him approach, it was quite clear that
something was terribly wrong.
    ‘What
has happened?’ Maxwell asked, when at last the zany reached him.
    ‘Something
terrible. Terrible.’ The zany hopped from one foot to the other.
    ‘What
is it?’ Maxwell pulled him through the curtains and beyond the view of the
crowd. ‘You look dreadful.’
    ‘It’s
Mr Hilyte,’ the zany wrung his hands. ‘He’s collapsed. He’s in a terrible state
— pale as death and burning with fever. He worked himself too hard, got too
carried away with the excitement of it all. I think the parsnips have done for
him also.’
    Maxwell
stared aghast. ‘This is appalling. Have you called a medic?’
    ‘A
what?’
    ‘A
doctor. The apothecary.’
    ‘Oh
yes, he’s in capable hands. But what are we going to do about the broadcast.
We’ll