“Good morning, Cort,” Nicklin said, mustering a smile as Brannigan came into the shop and approached the low counter. “Great morning, isn’t it?”
“Hadn’t noticed.” Brannigan glanced over the shelves behind Nicklin. “Where is it?”
“It? Oh, the sewing-machine! Maxy will be bringing it through in a minute.”
“Isn’t it ready?”
“It’s been ready for ages, Cort… sitting right here and ready to go…” Nicklin forced his brain into higher gear. “I just noticed a rough spot on the welding—just a minute ago—so I told Maxy to take it back and smooth it out. We don’t want your good lady scratching her hand, do we?”
Brannigan studied Nicklin as though he were some unpleasant primitive life form. “I bumped into young Maxy in the bar of the Victoria Hotel last night. Got to talking to him for a while.” Brannigan increased the intensity of his stare, as though he had just said something very significant.
“Really?” Nicklin toyed nervously with his empty coffee cup as he divined what was coming next. “That was nice.”
“When I asked him about my machine he said he didn’t even know I’d brought it in. What have you to say to that?”
Nicklin mentally cursed his assistant for not having either the loyalty or the savvy to cover up for him. “You can’t trust a word Maxy says when he’s had a couple. Poor kid gets confused. I think his memory goes.”
“It had gone last night, that’s for sure,” Brannigan growled, his gaze probing Nicklin’s soul. “He couldn’t even remember having any relatives over in Poynting—let alone a favourite uncle who had just died, and whose funeral he had just attended.”
“My problem is that I trust people too much.” Nicklin put on a disappointed expression, at the same time wondering what insane impulse had prompted him to blurt out that particular lie. To make matters worse, he had completely forgotten having done it, otherwise he might have been able to bribe Maxy into collusion.
“I let Maxy put just about anything over on me when he wants some extra time off,” he went on. “You know what? I’m going to go over to the welding shop right now and fetch your machine, and while I’m there I’m going to give that kid the worst…”
Nicklin’s voice faltered as he glanced out through the nearest window and saw the pear-shaped figure of Maxy approaching with the sewing-machine tucked under his arm. Maxy’s bottle shoulders and wide, slabby hips made him look older than his nineteen years when he was seen at a distance. Like many slightly misshapen men, he had great physical strength, and was walking so energetically that he appeared to spring clear of the ground with every step. He had not bothered to put on his hat for the short walk between the two buildings, and his scalp—shaven to forestall premature baldness—shone in the sunlight with the whiteness of lard.
Nicklin, who had been hoping to keep Maxy and Brannigan apart, almost groaned aloud at the sight. Please, O Gaseous Vertebrate, he prayed inwardly, please allow Maxy to have developed some common sense, diplomacy, loyalty or compassion during the night.
Make him keep his mouth shut about the dead uncle business. That’s not too much to ask…
Maxy burst into the shop with unnecessary force, glaring at Nicklin with hostile eyes. “What for,” he demanded, “did you tell Mr Brannigan I had an uncle in Poynting who died?”
Terrible sentence construction, Maxy, Nicklin thought, his mind trying to escape into irrelevances as he realised he was well and truly boxed in. His brow prickled with cool sweat.
“Yeah, that’s what I’d like to know.” Beneath its frosting of silver stubble, Brannigan’s face was that of a man who was prepared to commit murder.
Confronted by his accusers, Nicklin was suddenly amazed by how angry they were. They were behaving as though he had committed some terrible crime against them… as though he had betrayed their trust in a matter of the utmost gravity… and, when it came down to it, who were they? Nobodies! He had no need of them. In fact, they were the ones who needed him! It was, now that he thought of it, rather like the trial scene at the end of Alice in Wonderland, where Alice is coming to her senses and realises that all the entities who are crowding and harassing her are nothing more than playing cards. There was absolutely nothing to prevent him from, as Alice had done, rising up and venting his irritation with one great shout of, Who cares for you? You’re nothing but a pack of cards!
“What are you grinning at?” Brannigan shot Maxy a can-you-believe-this? glance and leaned across the counter, coming so close that Nicklin received a warm gust of cinnamon from his breath. “I don’t see anything funny.”
Nicklin, who had not been aware of showing amusement, did his utmost to emit that single devastating shout which would scatter his oppressors as though they were leaves caught up in a tornado. His mouth opened, but no matter how he strained no sound was issued, and he realised amid an upwelling of despair that the simple act—natural to anyone who had any backbone to speak of- was beyond his capabilities. He was hemmed in, trapped, about to be humiliated, and could envisage no possible means of escape.
“There must be some misunderstanding here, gentlemen,” he said, mind racing with the futility of an engine which has just snapped its load shaft. “I don’t think I ever actually said anything about…”
He broke off, becoming aware of a new element in the scene, something which with a modicum of luck could terminate the current unpleasantness. Beyond the wide shady eaves of the building, the agile figure of Zindee White—aged thirteen and a bit—could be seen sprinting across the stretch of grass which separated her family’s home from Nicklin’s property. She was wearing a bright red T-shirt and orange shorts, and was moving so fast that a visible cloud of dust and pollen swirled in her wake. She was the most regular customer for Nicklin’s library service, and—in spite of the age difference—possibly his best friend. It was obvious that she had some important news to impart to him. From past experience he knew that “important” could embrace anything from the acquisition of a desired toy to the discovery of a jewel-bug with exceptional markings. Whatever it was on this occasion, Nicklin vowed, he was going to find some way to make it his ticket to freedom.
Thank you, O Gaseous Vertebrate, he thought while giving a theatrical start of surprise. “Here’s young Zindee!” he exclaimed. “And just look at that speed. I hope there isn’t anything wrong at home.”
Before Brannigan and Maxy could reply, Zindee stormed in through the shop’s open door, her sneakers slapping the floor with the force of her deceleration. “Jim! Have you heard the…?”
Realising that Nicklin was not alone, she stopped speaking, folded her hands behind her back and came around the counter to stand at his side. He saw it as a little gesture of solidarity, and was gratified. Zindee was breathing heavily after the run, and Nicklin detected from her the buttery smell of clean perspiration.
“What d’you want, kid?” Maxy said irritably.
Zindee gazed coldly at an old adversary. “Nothing to do with you, baldy.”
A look of outrage appeared on Maxy’s face, and Nicklin wished he had the child’s casual facility with insults. It was a matter of ingrained principle with him that he would never make offensive remarks about any feature which had been foisted on a person by the lottery of birth. If people had unpleasant personality traits, something for which they could be held responsible, then on that score they were fair game—the only snag being that, even so, he found it almost impossible to inflict verbal wounds.