The old man’s visit had left The Pan somewhat at a loss. He would have to be cautious about raising a delicate matter like a robbery at the Bank of Grongolia with Big Merv – pick a suitable place and time when he was in a benevolent enough mood not to get angry at the idea, but not such good spirits that he’d agree to it. He had hardly slept. Instead he had spent most of the night pacing backwards and forwards across his room trying to think of a way to broach the subject of taking on a suicide mission with Ning Dang Po’s premier gangland boss.
What if Big Merv was mad enough to agree? There was the Interceptor to contend with now. It was faster and slicker than the MK II and The Pan would have to use his brain, as well as his driving ability to redress the balance. He didn’t trust his brain, and given the choice would have preferred to stick with his driving ability. He was a better driver than his pursuer – he was a better driver than most people – but even though it had every state-of-the-art upgrade available the MK II was outclassed, and he feared that sooner or later, he was going to be outwitted.
He would have liked to believe the whole escapade with the old man had been a dream. He could have convinced himself were it not for the thimble, or more to the point, the girl in the thimble.
The Pan had never been one to do things by halves, but he realised that even by his standards his regard for her was somewhat full-on. He was smitten with a capital S and it had happened very quickly. If he had dared he would have leaned through the portal – the way he had when he had collected the brandy glasses from the bar at the Parrot for the old man – and spoken to her. Several times he had thought about trying to climb through it completely. However, he realised that the sight of a seedy young man appearing out of thin air to the accompaniment of sounds associated with ancient plumbing would scare her off for life. Especially taking into account the fact that he knew nothing of her civilisation and try as he might, he was unable to imagine anywhere in this New World unless she was present. Even if he did think of a way to materialise in front of her without her noticing, he would have to wait until he was well versed enough in the manners and customs of her world to blend in, otherwise, he was afraid that, in his ignorance, he would make some unmentionable social gaffe and blow any chances of romance clean out of the water. He didn’t know where, or even when, she lived and his only link with her surroundings was her. The thimble worked on imagination and without her there, he didn’t know what to imagine. All he could do was wait and hope that by watching her go about the mundane tasks of her day, he would learn enough about her world to join her in a more discreet manner. From what little he had seen thus far, wherever it was she lived, there were no Grongles and no Resistance. He became obsessed with finding out about her surroundings. If he could only discover enough about how life worked on her planet maybe, one day, he could step through the thimble to reach her, leave his troubles behind forever, and start afresh.
Then again, maybe not. Even if she was anything more than a figment of his imagination – the old man had said she was real but The Pan didn’t entirely trust him – he was nowhere near expert enough on the workings of her world to leave his own, not until he could materialise somewhere alone. In the meantime he was supposed to persuade Big Merv and his fellow Mervinettes to sign a suicide pact with the old man and agree to take on the most ludicrously insane bank heist ever. His quest for information about the girl’s world had gained a new urgency.
The Pan had always considered himself to be a man of action. When something bad happened he could be very decisive, and run away at once. Only this time the number of places left to run to was dwindling. He felt trapped. His world was contracting. No matter where he fled, he would soon meet with the Resistance, the old man, Big Merv or the Grongles. His only option was to pick the least grim of four unattractive choices: to work for the old man. When he finally lay down to rest, he couldn’t stop his mind racing.
A new day eventually dawned. The Mervinettes would be meeting for a debrief of the previous day’s robbery and to plan the next one. Presumably, if the old man knew what Big Merv had said to him about thinking and driving, he would also have known about today’s debrief. It was only beginning to get light but The Pan had given up hope of sleeping and stood in front of the bathroom mirror scrutinising his complexion.
“You look terrible.”
The word ‘bags’ didn’t do justice to the dark rings under his eyes, they went right round, panda style; suitcases perhaps, or full container ships. He was paler, too and already regretting the way he’d spent the night. The Virtual Parents stepped in.
“Nothing is so important it should get in the way of a good night’s sleep,” he said in the voice of his Virtual Mother.
“Your Mother’s right,” he chipped in, doing the voice of Virtual Father. “If you must live by the few wits you have then you should at least rest them properly.”
“Yeh, yeh. I know,” he told them wearily, and plastered his face with shaving soap. He had been a bad son, always in trouble at school, never revising for his exams and always late with his course work. It wasn’t much good beating himself up about it – he could hardly do anything to repair the damage now, but he blushed at the thought of the shame he’d brought on his family. He watched his face darken in the mirror. His blushes were very odd, these days and he seemed to go more blue than red. He wondered if he was anaemic and should see a doctor. Perhaps his heart was as weak as he’d been pretending it to be.
“No. Don’t be an idiot. You’re just stressed.”
He dabbled the end of the razor in the water. Behind its beard of shaving cream, his reflection stared back at him expectantly. He liked talking to himself. It made his thought processes seem more real and definite.
“You’re going to have to sort this out. You can’t drive the Mervinettes to Grongolia and back; you’ll die,” he said, jabbing the razor authoritatively at his mirror image.
“I know,” it said, “but how?” He raised his eyebrows, watching as the reflection mirrored his movements.
“Good question ...” With a sigh he started to shave one side of his face. It did look a strange colour. Perhaps a visit to the doctor wasn’t such a bad idea.
“No. You can’t afford it,” he muttered continuing to shave as he spoke. He wasn’t concentrating and cut himself. He swore, and bleeding copiously all the while, he reached for a tissue which he dipped in the water and stuck over the cut. The flow of blood soon slowed and he reached down for the razor. In the dim light the smears of blood on his fingertips appeared darker than usual.
“Hmm,” he said, holding his hands closer to the neon tube above the mirror. Yes, the blood was darker, much darker than it should be. He looked up at his reflection again and leaned forward, giving his face the type of close inspection usually reserved for checking spots. The blood on the tissue was wrong. It wasn’t red at all, but a dark purple, as if somebody had added blue ink to it. He looked down at his hands again. They were purple, too.
“Smecking Arnold,” he whispered, clutching at the basin for support, “I’m cracking up.” No, he wasn’t cracking up; it was stress, that was all, a warning. He would be able to tell Big Merv about the old man in a couple of hours and then everything would be alright. He turned the light out and carried on shaving. The bathroom only had one tiny window which was fitted with frosted glass. In the Stygian gloom he couldn’t see what he was doing and cut himself again. At least he couldn’t see what colour the blood was this time.