Archer’s Goon. Diana Wynne Jones
stupid.
Fifi bravely rewrapped her scarf around her neck and crammed a striped hat on her head. She took hold of Awful’s hand. “Don’t worry,” she said in a small, squeaky voice. “I’m here.”
The Goon grinned down at her and calmly took hold of Awful’s other hand. Awful dragged to get it free. When that made no impression at all, she said, “I’ll bite you!”
“Bite you back,” remarked the Goon. “Give you tetanus.”
“I think he means it,” Fifi said in a faint squeak. “Don’t annoy him, Awful.”
“Can’t annoy me,” said the Goon. “No one has yet.” He must have gone on thinking about this while Howard was leading the way down the side passage into Upper Park Street. It was getting dark by then. The Goon’s head seemed to get lost upwards in the dusk. When Howard looked up, he could hardly see anything beyond the Goon’s wide leather shoulders. “Funny,” the Goon’s voice came down. “Never been really angry. Wonder what would happen if I was.”
“I shudder to think!” Fifi said, more faintly than ever. “Howard, would you like to hold my other hand?”
Howard was going to refuse indignantly. But it dawned on him in time that Fifi was scared stiff. So was he. When he took her hand in what was supposed to be a comforting grip, his hand was as cold and shaking as Fifi’s. Joined in a line, they turned right and walked the short distance to the Poly. It could have been a shorter distance still, but Fifi took one look at the empty spaces of the park, and another, shuddering, at the gathering dark in Zed Alley and took the longer way around by the road and in through the main gate of the Poly.
By the time they got there bright strip lights were on in most of the windows of the Poly, and the forecourt, where the diggers were at work excavating for the new building, was well lit too. There were a lot of people about, students hurrying home and men working on the site. It should have felt safe. But the Goon still had hold of Awful’s hand and none of them felt safe. Fifi cast longing looks at several people she knew, but she did not dare call out for help. Howard twitched at her hand, trying to tell her that they could give the Goon the slip inside the building. They could go up in the lift, down the stairs, through the fire doors, up in the other lifts and shake him off in the crowds. Then they could phone the police.
They went up the steps into the litter of paper cups in the foyer. Howard turned towards the lifts.
“Don’t be too clever,” the Goon said. “Know where you live.”
Howard turned round and looked up at him. The distant small face held the usual grin, but just for an instant, before Howard looked clearly, it did not look quite as daft as he had thought. In fact, he could have sworn the Goon looked almost clever. But when Howard looked properly, he realised that it was just a sort of slyness. That was bad enough. Howard changed direction and led them all up the stairs instead, to the room where Dad usually did his teaching.
Dad was there. They heard his voice from behind the door, raised in a yell. “Good heavens, woman! I don’t want to know what the Structuralists think! I want to know what you think!”
Dad sounded busy. Howard raised one hand to knock at the door, but the Goon reached a long arm around him and tore the door open. Inside, there was a row of people sitting in metal chairs and holding note pads. They all turned irritably to look at the door. Quentin Sykes, propped on the back of another metal chair, turned around as irritably as the rest. He was smallish and fattish and barely came up to the Goon’s armpit. But, as Howard knew, you could rely on Dad not to panic. Quentin went on looking at them irritably and raked his hands through the rather fluffy remains of his hair, while he took in the Goon, Howard’s and Fifi’s scared faces, and Awful’s angry glower.
He turned back to his students. “Well, that about wraps it up for today,” he said smoothly. “We’ll save the Structuralist view for next week. Come in, all of you, and shut the door – you’re making a draught. I think we’ll ask Miss Potter to introduce next week’s discussion, since she obviously knows so much about Structuralism.” At this the thinnest woman with the largest note pad sat upright and stared in outrage. “The rest of you,” Quentin Sykes said, before she could speak, “had better read these books in order to keep up with Miss Potter.” And he rapidly recited a list of books. While the students, including Miss Potter, scribbled them down, Quentin took another look at the Goon. “See you all next week,” he said.
The students took a look at the Goon, too, and all decided to leave quickly. Everyone hurried out of the room, except for Miss Potter, who was still looking outraged. “Mr Sykes,” she said, “I really must complain—”
“Next week, Miss Potter. Put it all in your paper,” Quentin said. “Show me how wrong I am.”
Miss Potter, looking more outraged than ever, squared her shoulders and marched out of the room. Howard hoped that Dad would be able to get rid of the Goon this easily too.
“Now what is this?” Quentin said, looking at the Goon.
“Meet the Goon, Dad,” said Howard.
The Goon grinned, almost angelically. “Overdue payment,” he said. “Came to collect two thousand.”
“He just walked in, Mr Sykes!” Fifi said angrily. “And he—”
Quentin stopped Fifi by holding one hand up. It was a knack he seemed to have with students. “Nonsense,” he said. “My payment isn’t overdue.”
It was the Goon’s turn to hold one hand up, grinning still. Since he was still holding Awful’s hand, Awful came up too, dangling and yelling. He said something, but nothing could be heard but Awful. He had to shout it. “Should have had it two weeks ago! Archer’s annoyed—” This was as far as the Goon got before Awful somehow managed to climb up her own arm and fasten her teeth in the Goon’s knuckles. The Goon must have felt it. He turned to her reproachfully. “Drop you!” he shouted above the noise Awful was still making.
“No, you won’t. You’ll put her down,” said Quentin. Long practice had given him a way of enlarging his voice so that it came through Awful’s. “Or you will if you want to hear yourself speak.”
This seemed to strike the Goon as a good idea. He lowered Awful to the floor, where she stood putting her tongue in and out and making disgusted faces. “He tastes horrible,” she said. “Can I go on yelling?”
“No,” said Quentin, and he said to the Goon, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never heard of this Archer. The man I deal with is Mountjoy.”
“Don’t know Mountjoy,” said the Goon. “Must go to Archer in the end. Archer didn’t get it.”
“But I tell you I sent it,” Quentin insisted. “I sent it last week. I know it was late, but Mountjoy never bothers, as long as it’s the full two thousand words.” He turned to Fifi. “You know I sent it, don’t you? It was that long envelope I gave you last week to drop in at the Town Hall.”
It seemed to Howard that Fifi gave the faintest gasp at this, but she said promptly, “Oh, was that what it was? Yes, you did.”
“Well, then?” Quentin said to the Goon.
The Goon folded his long arms and loomed a little. “Archer didn’t get it,” he repeated.
“Then go and ask Mountjoy about it,” said Quentin.
“You ask him,” said the Goon. His round eyes slid sideways to the telephone on the desk.
“All right,” said Quentin. “I will.” He went to the telephone and dialled. Howard, watching and listening and by now quite mystified, knew that his father really did dial the Town Hall. He heard the switchboard girl answer, “City Council. Which office, please?” And Quentin said, “Mr Mountjoy. Extension six-oh-nine.” After a pause he could hear a man’s voice, a rich, rumbling voice, answering. Quentin, looking unlovingly at the Goon, said, “Quentin Sykes here, Mountjoy. It’s about my two thousand