“Gotcha you little toerag.”
Yikes! It was Frank the Knife (no relation to Mac) one of Big Merv’s gang.
“Erk,” said The Pan, putting his hand in his pocket.
He took a deep breath and his panic subsided. He might be a wazzock but he was smarter than Frank and when it came to running away he was world class.
Big Merv had often remarked on The Pan’s mysterious ability to escape from the most dogged of pursuers and usually quipped about ‘rear-view mirrors’ or ‘eyes in the back of his head’. Big Merv didn’t know that The Pan literally did have eyes in the back of his head. They had grown, overnight, four years previously, when he was sixteen. He remembered it vividly because it had coincided with one of the Grongles’ purges.
The Grongolian hordes had invaded K’Barth, imprisoned the Architrave – the K’Barthan ruler – and seized power years before The Pan was born, though officially the country had operated as an affiliated principality rather than a fully annexed state. This particular ‘purge’ was aimed at ending the K’Barthans’ repeated attempts to establish home rule; or at least, a version of home rule which was different from that which the Grongles dictated. Anyone K’Barthan in a position of power was invited to ‘retire’ gracefully and those who didn’t were tried for treason and imprisoned or executed. The religious leaders disappeared in one way or another. Even the ones toeing the Grongolian party line, who had merely been watched and harassed until then, were imprisoned. The High Priest, who fiercely resisted any attempts to force his retirement, was killed in his snurd in a freak ‘accident’ – although everyone thought that his demise was engineered by the Grongolian security forces. Then, as life began to settle down again, the Grongles finally got round to actually chopping off the Architrave’s head.
He was probably the worst Architrave ever, little more than a puppet, but even so, he was K’Barth’s spiritual and temporal leader, ordained by Arnold the Holy Prophet and chosen by the priests. Putting him to death was a special kind of sacrilege. It should have been a step too far, but most K’Barthans preferred to stay alive and stay silent rather than complain and end up ... well ... like the Architrave. And anyway, with all the indigenous leaders gone, who in K’Barth would be brave or stupid enough to start a rebellion?
As far as The Pan was concerned, growing an extra pair of eyes had merely been the culmination of a vexing fortnight. At the time he had assumed it was all part of growing up and being Hamgeean. Naturally, he was far too reticent to discuss the puberty thing with his family and before they had a chance to notice of their own accord, the Grongles had come and carted them away. Being able to see in two directions at once had given him vertigo to start with, but after a while he’d grown used to it and stopped giving it a second thought. By the time he’d got over his embarrassment he had realised he was unique. No-one noticed the extra eyes under his hair, but to be doubly sure he often wore a hat. He didn’t want anyone to discover his secret in case he was branded a freak, or worse, in case it meant something.
“You’re coming with me,” Frank told him sternly. “Any funny business and you’re history, got it?”
It was hard for The Pan to play it cool as, in his pocket, his fingers closed round the reassuring form of Big Merv’s plastic, squeezy lemon.
Was it upright?
Yes.
Good. He flipped open the lid with his thumb and waited for the right moment. To annoy people like Frank the Knife went against every fibre of The Pan’s being. He was a major coward, top scorer on the yellow-o-meter every time. However, the only thing that outweighed The Pan’s cowardice was his overriding desire not to die – not yet at any rate. If he went with Frank, he would wind up at the bottom of the river
“OK. Let’s go. An’ I’m warning you. NO funny business,” said Frank.
“Yep.” He took a deep breath. It was now or never – and it wouldn’t be funny.
In one swift movement he yanked the lemon from his pocket and squeezed the contents over his shoulder. A jet of acidic juice hit Frank the Knife in the eye, causing him to bellow in pain and put one hand up to his face. The Pan felt Frank’s grip loosen, wriggled free and ran for the door.
****
“Oi!” shouted Smasher Harry, as the door caught him full in the face and The Pan leapt over his sprawling form and fled. He was supposed to be lying in wait outside to catch The Pan if he tried to escape.
“Stop him!” shouted Frank as they watched him accelerating up the street.
Smasher Harry whistled. “That kid can run.”
“Yeh,” said Frank. “Pity he’s such a jerk. We could use him.”
“Oi!” shouted Harry again, half-heartedly.
“Stop him!” shouted Frank into the silence.
“He stole my wallet,” added Harry with a flash of inspiration. His voice echoed along the empty street, but the only answer was the sound of The Pan’s receding footsteps. Never mind, they’d catch up with him before long. Finding the slippery little wretch wasn’t so hard – it was nabbing him that was tricky.
Frank’s leather trench coat creaked as he shrugged his shoulders.
“Pint?” he asked, holding the door open.
“Yer, don’t mind if I do. It’s a damp old night,” said Harry. He’d been standing out in the rain for ten minutes and he was soaked, despite the new mac he was wearing. He wished he’d worn his leather coat like Frank’s, but he’d seen the mac and felt like a change. He would have to find the hawker he bought it from and smash his face in. It was supposed to be waterproof. However, clearly this was only true if the water and the mac were in different countries. There was Frank, dry and snug and here was he, sodden. Git.
In the distance there was a strangled yelp and a noise. Shadadadumph, it went. Frank and Harry stopped and turned round. They had thumped enough people to know the sound of an unconscious body hitting the pavement when they heard it.
“You think the security forces have got him?” asked Frank sheepishly. Neither he nor Harry had any time for The Pan; they thought Big Merv should have dumped him in the river ages ago. All the same, being dumped in the river by the security forces was a different matter entirely. The Pan was a criminal like them; they were of one kind, they were family. Sure it was a psychotic, dysfunctional family and its members would die rather than spend time together – actually, they would die if they spent time together – but they were a family, nonetheless.
“Dunno,” said Harry.
The two of them waited to see what would happen. At the far end of the narrow street a figure appeared, silhouetted against the glare cast by the one and only street light. They watched it approach.
It was about six foot three and built like a truck, or at the least, like someone who worked out a lot – in this case, judging by the size of it, probably all day – only, unusually for the muscle-bound, it had a neck. Its extensive physique was partly concealed by the kind of expensive made-to-measure pinstriped suit which accentuated the contrast between the broad – very broad – shoulders and the slimmer waist. The result made it seem big and imposing without looking lumpy. Punching it would be like hitting an anvil, pointless and painful. On its feet it wore leather boots with zips at the side, and over the top of its suit, the ubiquitous leather trench coat like Frank’s, though these items, too, were clearly handmade. It wore a trilby hat because it had a pair of antennae which, even in K’Barth, was too memorable an attribute for a member of the underworld to sport openly. It didn’t have any hair, except for its eyelashes and eyebrows; it was orange and clammy-looking and clearly in the mood to thump someone. It was Harry and Frank’s boss, Big Merv. The antennae and clammy skin were usual attributes for a Swamp Thing, the orange colouring was not. Swamp Things are green, but this is not something the wise mentioned to Big Merv, since he was unusually sensitive about the fact. Harry and Frank couldn’t help noticing the bulky object he was carrying slung over one shoulder.