Working Wonders (17 page)

‘Do you promise to uphold our principles of loyalty and commerce, raging against the faceless, amoral bureaucracy of the blank, administrative world?’

‘Does this mean you’re all going to help me get squillions of quid for this town?’ said Ross, looking round. The men in masks all nodded feverishly.

‘Are you going to help me?’ Ross asked the Grand Vizier pointedly.

‘Yes,’ said the editor.

‘Cool,’ said Ross. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Now you must swear to keep this a secret or the hawks will claw out your tongue and the wolves will tear your heart.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Ross, ‘we’re just putting off the cock-kicking, aren’t we? Can we get a move on?’

The Grand Vizier stood up solemnly. ‘Before we welcome our Brother Mawdryn – let the painful and difficult initiation commence.’

Ross blew the air out of his cheeks as thirty dressed up middle-aged Slough worthies grinned with glee under their masks and lined up to kick him in the crotch.

‘Okay, the planning committee,’ said Arthur. He knew it had been a mistake to call a breakfast meeting. Sven and Sandwiches kept nodding off at one end of the table, particularly unpleasant given the fate of the egg sandwich Sven was holding. Gwyneth had managed to keep up the silent treatment now for a week and a half, which was good going, even by Arthur’s long experience with the huff medium. Only Rafe was raring to go, as ever, and Arthur was feeling very grateful to him. They’d even managed to fit in another pint together, just the two of them, although Arthur secretly suspected that discussing mazes with a male friend might be a bit – well – gay. But it was nice, though.

‘We have to convince them to give us planning permission for something that’s about the size of ninety kitchen extensions. It’s not going to be easy. We’re going to have to be mature, convincing, dedicated and, er, awake.’

‘I’m awake,’ said Sven. ‘What are we doing today?’

‘We’re going to whup some ass!’ said Rafe cheerfully.

‘Oh. Cool,’ said Sven. ‘Will be there food?’

‘Right!’ said Arthur, feeling like some kind of ridiculous teacher. ‘Remember, we have the total costings, contributions, profit margins, space … all on Marcus’s super-charts! Gwyneth, you’re handling aesthetics – why a maze is the true thing Coventry needs and how this is the only maze it can be.’

Gwyneth raised her head. ‘Apart from this, when does the official proposal have to go in?’

‘Nobody knows yet. They like to spring it on you, apparently. Sven, your job is to sit outside the meeting room and, er … guard us from any interlopers. Now, remember – this isn’t just a planning bid. Really, this is us launching the town’s bid and marking out what we think we want to do. So, think about that – okay! Let’s go! Um … asses whup!’

‘You’ll be fine,’ said Lynne.

‘I’m not one of nature’s ass whuppers,’ said Arthur, fiddling with something he’d found on Lynne’s couch. It looked like a fang. There was very little left in the room.

‘Lynne?’

‘Uh huh?’

‘What’s going to happen out there? I mean, are these City of Culture people … Do I have to fight them?’

Lynne smiled. ‘Oh, no. They’re not the enemy.’

‘They’re not?’

‘Bureaucracy isn’t evil, Arthur. It’s neutral. It only seeks to preserve itself’.

‘Uh huh,’ said Arthur.

‘You just have to watch out for people closer to home.’

‘Sven?’

Lynne gave him a look. ‘
Slough
.’

Arthur sat up. ‘Look, if you know all this stuff …’

‘Yes …’

‘I mean … okay, I don’t know. Right. Do dragons exist? Who killed JFK? Ooh, what about Jesus?’

‘There are many mysteries, Arthur.’

‘Oh, don’t be like that. That’s rubbish! Unless of course you don’t know.’

‘I do know that the planning committee is somewhat obsessed with timekeeping.’

Arthur looked at his watch.

‘But I’m not finished …’

‘Alas, I’m afraid universal mysteries will just have to keep for today.’

‘Bugger!’

The main council office was a terrible, late gothic monstrosity. Pigeon-stained gargoyles leaned over its dark red precipice-like walls, and, inside, mountains of steps led up to its long linoleum corridors. Everywhere hung curling pieces of paper, warning about things people walking into the chambers should not be doing, and giving their particularly baroque opening hours (9.22–11.15, 14.57–16.01, winter times). It smelled of old schools, chalk and damp overcoats, and Gwyneth’s heels clicked loudly as they made their way down the endless corridors.

Arthur was nervous. This was the first fence. How he performed here was, on the whole, pretty important. He didn’t know who was going to interview them, but he hoped they’d be sympathetic. He hugged his overheads closer to his body and smiled round at everyone. Everyone smiled back except Gwyneth.

‘Come in.’

The voice that was calling out from the room did not sound friendly. They had been sitting there, drinking revolting coffee and waiting, for twenty-five minutes, getting increasingly agitated and worried. Marcus was feeling sick.

The group got up, and Arthur pushed open the heavy wooden door.

The room was large and panelled. Once smart, it now bore a patina of minutes and boredom – the tables, once ornate, were scratched and covered in coffee rings; the chairs were cheap plastic standard issue.

There was a long desk against the far wall. Behind it sat three figures, barely lit by the weak sunlight coming through the high windows. The whole place was dusty. The central figure was tall and forbidding-looking. Heavy eyebrows overshadowed his long face. He didn’t smile when they entered. To his right was a woman dressed in a suit straight from Conservative Party central casting. She nodded her head formally. And to his left was a very quiet man who neither looked up nor spoke throughout the proceedings, but concentrated on scratching notes on paper with a fountain pen.

‘Um, hi,’ said Arthur, giving what he hoped was an open and confident smile. It wasn’t returned.

‘I’m Arthur Pendleton, from the district department to discuss …’

‘We know why you are here,’ said the man in the middle. His voice was low and ominous. ‘Proceed.’

Arthur nodded in a way that attempted to convey that he didn’t mind this little brushoff in the slightest, and started to outline the project, whilst Marcus distributed handouts and tried to get the overhead projector to work.

‘Thank you for agreeing to look at our submission. Now, this is what we’re planning …’

Ten minutes later, Arthur was struggling. He was getting no feedback from these people, none at all. No-one was smiling, not even when he made his patented hilarious lost children joke. They were scarcely glancing at their handouts. The woman kept looking at her watch. This was making Arthur angry, which didn’t quite reconcile with the light, open approach he’d been aiming for.

‘So you see, that’s the space problem solved … car parking …’ he stuttered, ‘and, overall, it’ll be good for families, and I see your granting permission as the first step on a much better road for Coventry. And …’

He ran out of words.

‘And, that’s it. Thank you for your time,’ he concluded.

The panel sat back, still eerily silent. The man in the centre started leafing through the booklet of projections Marcus had put together, without noticeable interest. Arthur felt the palms of his hands begin to sweat.

The moments ticked on, the silence seeming to stretch out into some space of infinite time. He snuck a glance at Gwyneth, who was concentrating extremely hard on the cornicing.

Finally, at some secret sign, all three members of the committee sat back.

‘We have recently decided to try out,’ said the one in the centre ponderously, ‘a new method of assigning credibility. We find the old style too … too …’

‘When we used to ask questions about the project plans,’ the stern-looking woman interjected – she leaned forward on the desk – ‘people
lied
.’

Arthur mimed shock and surprise, whilst feeling uncomfortably at the same time that she had just accused every single one of them of being a liar.

‘Quite,’ said the man in the middle. ‘So, we’ve decided to ask … er, slightly different questions. To test your mettle, as it were. See what you’re made of as a team. See if you can carry this thing,’ – he held up the booklet – ‘through.’

They looked nervously at each other. Marcus’s eyebrows were raised. Arthur reckoned they were covered if arithmetic came up.

‘I will ask you three questions,’ said the dark man. ‘You must answer them all. If you answer them all correctly, then you may go on your way and do as you wish.’

‘What? What the hell is this?’ hissed Gwyneth, but Arthur only shrugged.

‘Go ahead,’ he said.

The man blinked and went on. ‘Very well. Ahem.

My first is in the arm but not the hand

My second can be found in both sea and sand

My third cannot be found in skies of blue or oceans deep

But locked close in its heart its secrets keeps

My fourth can die but never will be born

My whole is of the night but rules the morn.’

Marcus, Gwyneth and Arthur sat stock still.

‘
What
?’ said Gwyneth, to Arthur, not having recovered her composure.

‘Ssh,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s a riddle.’

‘I know it’s a riddle! What’s it doing in a planning meeting?’

‘Testing our initiative. Must be one of those new American management techniques. Don’t look unsettled.’

‘If the first is …
x
,’ said Marcus, scribbling on a piece of paper, ‘no, that’s not going to work.’

‘It’s not algebra, Marcus.’

‘Damn shame.’

Arthur scribbled some notes on his pad. ‘My first is in the arm but not the hand …’

‘A wristwatch,’ said Marcus. ‘Or, underarm hair.’

‘Yes, that would work, if you didn’t have hairy palms,’ said Gwyneth crossly.

‘Ssh. It’s letters,’ said Arthur. Gwyneth looked over his shoulder. ‘Like R or M? Ooh, like the band.’

‘Just the one letter. What’s the second line?’

Gwyneth thought. ‘Something about beaches.’

‘A watch at the beach,’ said Marcus pensively.

‘You just don’t get this, do you?’ said Arthur. ‘Both in sea and sand. That means either
s
or
a
…’ He jotted them down on the piece of paper, then suddenly started. ‘I know what it is.’

Gwyneth sniffed. ‘What are you, some kind of genius?’

‘No, that’s me,’ said Marcus.

‘No … it’s just – wow! I know what the puzzle means. I understand it.’

Gwyneth sniffed. ‘Well, enlighten us, genius.’

He pointed it out. ‘Say if the first two letters are “m” and “a”.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘And it’s “of the night” …’

‘Margaret Thatcher.’

‘It’s a mare. It’s a mare, isn’t it?’ Arthur said to the judges.

‘You have
night
mares,’ he explained to Marcus’s uncomprehending look.

‘I’m in one,’ said Gwyneth,

‘And mayors rule during the day!’

‘Oh,’ said Marcus. ‘This is stupid. Well, the next one’s
bound
to be maths.’

‘Correct,’ said the man.

‘Yay!’ said Marcus.

‘I mean, your first answer was correct. I doubt you will find this one so simple.’

‘Yeah?’ said Arthur, feeling pleased with himself. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’

The man coughed quietly.

‘I never was, am always to be,

No-one ever saw me, nor ever will

And yet I am the confidence of all

Who live and breathe on this terrestrial ball.

How loved and feared am I, how short, how long

Far longer than the night, beyond the reach of every dawn.’

Now they were even quieter. Arthur felt tenser than ever. Lynne might be fairly sure that these guys weren’t out to get him, but it didn’t feel that way.

‘It sounds like Sven’s dog,’ said Marcus.

‘Yes, that’s what they would give us a riddle on,’ said Gwyneth crossly. ‘Sandwiches. The next one will be about your mum.’

‘Are you dissing my mum?’ Sven interjected.

‘Stop it, you two,’ said Arthur. ‘We have to concentrate.’

‘But this is stupid!’

‘I may want to point out at this moment that you are the ones wanting to take public money to build a labyrinth in a park,’ said the woman. ‘Oh. I just did.’

‘I never was, yet always am to be …’ said Arthur as he wrote out the words. He pondered on whether it might be his namesake and supposed ancestor. Just at that moment he caught the eye of the main judge and had the weirdest impression that he knew what he was thinking. Then he blinked and returned to his papers.

‘A baby?’ said Gwyneth.