“You took your time, you little scrote,” Big Merv told The Pan, his antennae waving in irritation, “your friend here wants us to undertake the most daring bank heist ever!” The Pan noted, gloomily, how his eyes were shining. Doubtless the old man’s moronic idea appealed to his vanity. Big Merv had a dangerous bent towards flashiness and ostentation.
“He’s not my friend,” said The Pan shortly, “and it’s a suicide mission.”
“Oh dear.” The sense of innocent hurt and confusion emanating from the old man was touching and in The Pan’s view, completely unscrupulous. “As I understood it, you had a different view when we spoke the other day.”
“Yeh,” said Big Merv. He jerked his thumb in the old man’s direction, “He says you told him you’d walk the driving.”
“No,” said The Pan patiently, “I never said I’d drive and I told him it was a suicide mission too.”
“But you agreed to do it,” said the old man feebly. The Pan shook his head, speechless. The cheek of the old get!
“No, I agreed to talk to Big Merv, which is what I came here to do today,” said The Pan flatly. Big Merv was glaring at him. It was a weighing-up kind of glare, as in amount of concrete required and size of box. “Merv—sir—you’re not serious are you?” he finally managed to gasp, “you don’t actually believe robbing the Bank of Grongolia, in Grongolia, itself, would ever be a piece of cake?”
Everyone turned to the old man. His face was the picture of septuagenarian innocence. The Pan, on the other hand, wore an expression of controlled panic. He knew what would be happening. Big Merv would be realising that he had seen that expression before, on the faces of people who were saying ‘I would never grass on you’ a few hours after doing so.
“Maybe,” said Big Merv. “I hear you was boasting down the pub.”
“And you believe that?” asked The Pan. “Are you mad?”
“He can tell me things only you, me and the boys here were witness to. He can talk about them like he was there.”
“He did that to me too,” retorted The Pan. “It doesn’t mean he was. It isn’t real. Look at him!” He gestured to the old man who was wearing even more yellow than on the previous occasion they’d met, “He’s a Nimmist! You’ve heard the rumours, he’s reading your mind or something.”
All three Mervinettes simultaneously turned their heads and stared at The Pan, their leather coats creaking in unison.
“He’s reading your mind,” growled Big Merv, “not mine.”
“It doesn’t matter whose mind it is does it? It’s not normal and it gives him an unfair advantage!”
The silence in the room was absolute and the air heavy with unspoken accusations. The other three Mervinettes were like that – but The Pan could see he had got them thinking. There were all those rumours about the Secret Order of the Most Holy Ninja Nimmists, after all.
“Arnold above! Please, listen to me for a moment. I know I’m an idiot, I know I’m a liar but I never, NEVER boasted to him in the pub. I’ve been blacklisted for five whole years now, and you of all people know that if I was really that crass I’d have been dead on day two.”
“Hmph.” A curt nod. Big Merv began to look thoughtful instead of angry. His antennae tied themselves in a knot and The Pan wondered if he was beginning to get through to him, at last. Maybe he should just tell the truth and throw himself on Big Merv’s protection. Yes, that’s what he’d do.
“Please, you have to believe me. I don’t know how he found me but this is some kind of upper echelon Nimmist mind game. He knows where I live and if I don’t help him make you go to Grongolia and rob the state bank he’s going to give my address to the Resistance.”
Big Merv folded his arms and gave the old man a long appraising stare. The Pan had been a member of the gang long enough to know that, although Big Merv was scary, with his size and temperament, he could spot the difference between honesty and lies and he would listen to people if he thought they were telling the truth.
“That right?” Big Merv asked the old man quietly, checking for a reaction.
“I’m afraid it is,” the old boy was embarrassed, positively sheepish, which, in The Pan’s view, was a good thing. But he was also calm and relaxed and patently unafraid, while Big Merv was beginning to give off an aura of barely controlled rage.
“That makes things different,” said Big Merv, “first I don’t take kindly to blackmail, see? Second, I can believe you’re a Nimmist, you’d have to be to go poncing about in that lot without getting arrested, an’ that would make you pure as the driven snow wouldn’t it? Right? But you lied to me and now I find out you’ve been blackmailing one of my prize assets. Nimmist or not, mister, I have a problem with that. It’s not a trustworthy way to behave. What if I change my mind? What if I decide this job’s too dangerous and that I’m going to protect my asset—I repeat, MY asset—by dumping you in the river?”
“My dear chap,” said the old man, “first of all, I can see you are a Thing of honour and principle! As such we both know you don’t have it in you to murder a man of the cloth. And second, as I am sure you will appreciate, unless I were very unwise I would never have come here uninsured, would I?”
Big Merv was thoughtful.
“Maybe, but you’re gonna have to be very well insured to get out of this one, mate.”
“I believe I am. I have proof—concrete proof, you understand—that you commit bank robberies,” replied the old boy, evenly, as he handed over a brown envelope, “I imagine you wouldn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands and of course, it goes without saying, this is not the only copy.”
The Pan watched Big Merv open the envelope and shuffle through the papers and photographs it contained. For all his frustration and panic, he had to admit that, behind the amiable elderly buffer facade, the old boy was a razor-sharp, not to mention ruthless, operator. He felt a twinge of envy. He knew he could never be that cool-headed.
“I’m sorry it has to be this way,” said the old man as he took another envelope from the inside pocket of his coat. Was that genuine regret in his voice, The Pan wondered? No. Not after what he’d just done. It had to be acting. “I see you have already made a start; a man on the inside has furnished me with some information which could be of use: guard rotas, security codes, camera locations and the like.” He held it out.
“How do I know if I can trust you?” asked Big Merv.
“You don’t,” said the old man, true to form, “but I don’t think you have much choice do you? For what it’s worth, we understand your services won’t come cheap. Name your price.”
There it was again, thought The Pan. ‘We.’
“I don’t want yer money,” snapped Big Merv. He spoke calmly but he was shaking with suppressed rage.
“Then shall we make it one million?”
“One million what?” growled Big Merv. The Pan could see he was still livid because his antennae stuck straight up from the top of his head.
“Well now, since they are a little more stable than K’Barthan Zloty, I suggest Grongolian dollars. Would one million Grongolian dollars be sufficient?” asked the old man.
Big Merv said nothing.
“Each?”
Arnold’s Y-fronts! One million Grongolian dollars. That was almost more money than The Pan could imagine.
Big Merv nodded.
“Alright, we’ll do it,” he said sullenly, “we’ll do this robbery for four million Grongolian.” He swung round and glared at The Pan: “And as for you,” he strode over to him, shouting, “you stupid, snivelling—” Without warning, he punched him in the face. The Pan saw the fist approaching his nose but didn’t have time to duck before it hit home. The impact tumbled him backwards over a chair and the pain erupted like a firework. He hit the floor, sprawled on his back and clamped his hand over his face, rolling onto all fours. Big Merv stepped smartly round the chair and pulled him to his feet.
“That’s for getting us into this!”
The Pan had had enough.
“Now who’s the stupid one?” he said nasally as he clamped his handkerchief to his bleeding nose, “thumping the assets you’re supposed to be protecting.” Big Merv let go of him.
“I’m sorry, mate. I was out of order, but I couldn’t bring myself to punch that old relic,” he said, glaring at the old man. It hadn’t been a hard punch; The Pan’s nose was already beginning to stop bleeding, and although it was bruised and swollen it didn’t feel broken. He peeked gingerly at the contents of his handkerchief. It was blue. Not red, not purple, but pure blue. Biro ink. He contained Biro ink. He had to be cracking up, there was no way this could be real.
“That don’t look right,” said Harry, leaning over him.
“Nope. It’s fine, absolutely fine. Just a trick of the light,” said The Pan, screwing his handkerchief into a ball and stuffing it swiftly into his pocket. Arnold in the skies! Harry thought it was odd, too! That meant he wasn’t cracking up which, though reassuring, didn’t do much to offset the alternative, that his blood was now blue, instead of red. He must be very ill. He wondered if it was terminal. Undoubtedly. Then again, it would hardly make a difference would it? He felt his nose carefully and glowered at the old man.
He was glad to see that an experience of violence, first hand, had finally ruffled the old boy’s air of calm. For a moment he stared at The Pan as if he was Lord Vernon, himself, before excusing himself and leaving rapidly. Good! Now that he’d witnessed how much damage it could cause, perhaps he’d think twice before he blackmailed anyone else!