The Pan realised he had touched a raw nerve when Big Merv grabbed him by the collar, pulling him as close as his cemented ankles would allow, and glared into his eyes.
“You wanna know if I miss robbing banks?” he snarled, “whadda you think?” His breathing was shallow and his blood pressure almost visibly rising.
“Mmm. I think,” The Pan swallowed hard, “that you probably do.” He wondered if he should have played the species card after all. The way the conversation was going right now, it might have been safer.
“Yeh? Well you’re wrong. I’ve outgrown all that,” said Big Merv, but to The Pan the words sounded hollow. “I extort money, it’s safer and I can guarantee my returns. And, officially, sonny, I ain’t ever robbed no-one.”
The Pan pressed on, “I understand and I appreciate what you say about extortion, but wouldn’t robbing ...”
The bright green eyes burned with pent-up anger which was firmly directed at him. Ah. He started again.
“What I’m trying to say is, wouldn’t ... not robbing banks—the way you used to—be more profitable?” Yes. That was better. “Wouldn’t you get more cash for less expenditure? Then there’s the status,” said The Pan, warming to his theme. “It’s no life for a criminal of your stature, standing on the edge of a nasty wet river at all hours of the day and night,” he glanced upwards at the steadily descending drizzle, “and in all weathers, tipping people in. You’ll probably catch pneumonia.”
Big Merv let go of him and The Pan watched him carefully. His antennae tied themselves into a reef knot – a sign of intense concentration. Good. They drooped forwards a little, still knotted and untied themselves as he spoke.
“’S not the water, I like a bit of rain. Reminds me of home,” he said wistfully. “’S always warm in the swamp though.” The antennae waved back and forth. He looked cold and miserable and ready to concede that The Pan was right. There was silence.
Please, please, Arnold let him give me a chance, thought The Pan. Big Merv’s antennae continued to knot and unknot themselves.
“Fair enough, son,” he said eventually. “I reckon you’ve proved you’re smart. So ... if you’ve got somethin’ to say, ’s about time you said it.”
The Pan took a deep breath.
“OK. Not to imply that you ever did, or would but ... what if you wanted to start robbing banks again?” Merv raised his arm. “Please, don’t hit me, yet.” To his relief, Big Merv demurred. “Look, purely hypothetically—”
“Hypo what?”
“I mean, just for the sake of argument,” said The Pan swiftly, “say you wanted to rob a bank. What’s to stop you?”
“Don’t gimme that cobblers.” Big Merv grabbed him by the collar again and put his face so close their noses were almost touching, “You know why, you tart. The same reason no-one else does.” His antennae straightened themselves, pointing upwards – a bad sign. He was losing patience. Time to hurry this up.
“I would guess you need a getaway driver,” said The Pan, surprising himself with the calmness of his voice.
“’S right.”
“So why not me? I can drive. Spare my life now and I’ll drive for the next five years; for free.” He was painfully aware that his fear was making him speak faster and faster, that ‘free’ was not going to work and that rather than five years he had meant to say two. “Alright, not quite free, but all it will cost you is the rent on a room for me,” he gabbled. “And a small allowance for food. You’ll recoup the cost of the flats in weeks.”
Having made his case, The Pan shut his eyes and waited for the icy embrace of the river.
It didn’t come. Big Merv didn’t snatch the pickaxe handle from Harry and hit him either. He merely relinquished his grip on his collar, looked him up and down and scratched his head.
A deathly hush fell.
Only the hissing of the rain as it landed in the harbour broke the silence. The Pan prayed that Merv was thinking about what he had said rather than how loud a splash he could make by throwing a Hamgeean and a box of cement into a river. The moment seemed to stretch to interminable minutes, while nobody spoke. In the face of Big Merv’s continuing silence The Pan feared that his time had, in all probability, come. There was a splot as he tried to kneel in the semi-hardened concrete.
“Please don’t kill me,” he begged wringing his tied hands, “please ...” He wondered whether he should go the whole hog and kiss Big Merv’s boots.
“Will you shut up, you toerag, I’m thinking,” shouted Merv. “You might be a great wuss, but against my better judgement, I like your idea.”
The Pan had hoped he might. Big Merv was ambitious, and being able to carry out successful bank robberies would boost his organisation’s prestige as well as its coffers, giving it a powerful advantage over its competitors. Who knew, once he had accrued enough funds, he might even gain an edge over the Resistance.
“If we’re gonna do this you can’t tell no-one. Your identity as my driver will be your deepest, darkest secret.”
The Pan nodded.
“Has to be that way, mate. To protect you from outside influences. It would be a pity if you grassed me up, now, wouldn’t it?” A horrible sinister edge to the voice there which made The Pan shudder but at the same time, a suggestion Big Merv might be about to take the bait. If this was going to work, Big Merv would want his getaway driver to be somebody insignificant, and Arnold above, The Pan knew he fitted the bill.
It would also be handy if the driver was somebody who owed Big Merv and who could therefore be controlled.
The Pan knew he ticked that box, too.
In a nutshell, from Big Merv’s point of view, the driver would have to be the kind of person nobody would suspect, somebody, well ... a bit spineless and irrelevant, frankly.
Excellent. Another box ticked, then.
The Pan was under no illusions about his personality, he’d always been a coward. But he knew he could drive, and being a getaway man was little more than glorified running. It wasn’t the most attractive career option but it had to be better than the concrete alternative.
No worries about appearing genuine; he was trembling so much it was obvious he was scared. But now there was something in his heart besides the fear – hope. As long as his driving measured up to Big Merv’s expectations, he might yet live to see another day. By the Holy Prophet, please let that be so.
“You’re a class one tool-bit but you’re bright and you’re devilish hard to catch,” said Merv with a brief glower in Frank and Harry’s direction. “’S down to whether you can handle a snurd like Hal, an’ I’m gonna see if you can. You said you had wheels?”
The Pan nodded again.
“Good coz yer not goin’ near mine. You’ve just bought yerself half an hour. Get him outta there.” There was a squelch as Frank and Harry pulled The Pan out of the thickening concrete and unceremoniously dumped him on his feet, both of which had gone to sleep. Before he had a chance to fall over, Big Merv grabbed him by the lapels. “You’re going to take us for a little drive,” he said. “You’d better be able to back this up. Any monkey business and you’ll go the same way in a few hours, only we’ll make sure you suffer first, d’you get my drift?”
“Oh yes. Thank you,” said The Pan as another attack of shivering came on. He coughed experimentally and, while Frank untied him, tried to ascertain if he had caught his death of cold or whether the shivering was merely due to abject fear.