First published by Methuen Children’s Books Ltd in 1984

First published in paperback by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2000

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Text copyright © Diana Wynne Jones 1984

Illustrations by Paul Hess 2000

All rights reserved.

Diana Wynne Jones and Paul Hess assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of the work respectively.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780006755272

Ebook Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9780008116705

Version: 2019-06-17

To Fiona

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Author’s Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Books by Diana Wynne Jones

About the Publisher

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This book will prove the following ten facts:

1 A Goon is a being who melts into the foreground and sticks there.

2 Pigs have wings, making them hard to catch.

3 All power corrupts, but we need electricity.

4 When an irresistible force meets an immovable object, the result is a family fight.

5 Music does not always soothe the troubled breast.

6 An Englishman’s home is his castle.

7 The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

8 One black eye deserves another.

9 Space is the final frontier, and so is the sewage farm.

10 It pays to increase your word power.

The trouble started the day Howard came home from school to find the Goon sitting in the kitchen. It was Fifi who called him the Goon. Fifi was a student who lived in their house and got them tea when their parents were out. When Howard pushed Awful into the kitchen and slammed the door after them both, the first person he saw was Fifi, sitting on the edge of a chair, fidgeting nervously with her striped scarf and her striped leg warmers.

“Thank goodness you’ve come at last!” Fifi said. “We seem to have somebody’s Goon. Look.”

Howard looked the way Fifi’s chin jerked and saw the Goon sitting in a chair by the dresser. He was filling most of the rest of the kitchen with long legs and huge boots. It was a knack the Goon had. The Goon’s head was very small, and his feet were enormous. Howard’s eyes travelled up a yard or so of tight faded jeans, jerked to a stop for a second at the knife with which the Goon was cleaning the dirty nails of his vast hands, and then travelled on over an old leather jacket to the little, round fair head in the distance. The little face looked half-daft.

Howard was in a bad mood anyway. That was Awful’s fault. Awful had made him meet her coming out of school because, as she said, he was her big brother and supposed to look after her. When Howard got there, there was Awful racing out of the gates, chased by twenty angry little girls. Awful was shouting, “My big brother’s here to hit you! Hit them, Howard!” Howard did not know what Awful had done to the other little girls, but knowing Awful, he suspected it was something bad. He objected to being used as Awful’s secret weapon, but he did not feel he could let her down. He swung his bag menacingly, hoping that would frighten the little girls off. But there were so many of them and they were so angry that it had ended by being quite a fight. And the little girls called names. It was being called names that had put Howard in a bad mood. And now he came home to find it full of Goon.

He banged his bag down on the kitchen table. The Goon did not look up. “Who is he supposed to be?” Howard asked Fifi.

Fifi jittered nervously. “He just walked in and sat there,” she said. “He says he’s from Archer, whoever that is.”

Howard was big for his age. On the other hand, so was the Goon big for whatever age he was. And the Goon had that knife. Howard thumped his bag on the table again. “Well, he can just go away,” he said. It did not come out as fierce as he had hoped.

Here Awful put her word in. “You go away, Goon,” she said. “Howard’s bag’s covered with the blood of little girls.”

This seemed to interest the Goon. He stopped cleaning his nails and gave the bag a wondering look. He spoke, in a strong, daft voice. “Don’t see any blood.”

“And we don’t know anyone called Archer!” Howard snapped.

The Goon grinned, a daft, placid grin. “Your dad does,” he said, and went back to cleaning his nails.

“He smells,” said Awful. “Make him go. I want my tea.”

The Goon did smell rather, a faint smell of gasoline and rotten eggs, which came in whiffs whenever he moved. Howard and Fifi exchanged helpless looks.

“I want my tea!” Awful yelled, in the way that had earned her her name. Her real name was Anthea, but she had been Awful from the moment she was born and first opened her mouth.

The piercingness of Awful’s yell seemed to get to the Goon. A slight quiver ran through the length of him, though it stopped before it got to his face. “Shut up,” he said.

“Shan’t,” said Awful. The Goon’s little face and daft round eyes turned to look at Awful. He seemed amazed. Awful looked back. She drew a deep, careful breath, opened her mouth and screamed. Dad always said that scream had cleared clinics and emptied buses since Awful was a month old. Now she was eight it was truly horrible.

The Goon cocked his small head and listened to it, almost appreciatively, for a second. Then he grinned. “Aw, shut up,” he said, and threw his knife at Awful.

At least that was what seemed to happen. Something certainly zipped past Awful’s screaming face. Awful ducked and stopped screaming at once. Something certainly flew on past Awful and landed thuk in Howard’s bag on the table. After it had, the Goon went placidly back to cleaning his nails with what was obviously the selfsame knife.

Howard, Fifi and Awful stared from the knife in the Goon’s hands to the raw new rip in Howard’s bag. Awful longed to scream again but did not quite dare. “How – how did he do that?” said Fifi. “He never moved!”

The Goon spoke again. “Know I mean business now,” he said. He sounded rather smug.

“What business?” said Howard.

“Stay here till I get satisfaction,” said the Goon. “Told her before you came in.” And he went on sitting, with his legs spread over most of the kitchen. It was plain he meant what he said.

Since there seemed no way of budging the Goon, Fifi and Howard began trying to get tea around the edges of him. This turned out to be impossible. The Goon took up too much space. They kept having to climb over his legs. The Goon made no attempt to stop them. On the other hand, he made no attempt to get his legs out of their way either.

“Serve you right if I spill hot tea over you!” Howard said angrily.

The Goon grinned. “Better not.”

“Or,” said Howard, “if I trip, you could get a peanut butter sandwich in the face.”

The Goon thought about this. Fifi interrupted hurriedly. “Would you like some tea, Goon? Tea in a cup, I mean, and a sandwich to hold in your hand?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said the Goon. And he added, after thinking deeply again, “Not stupid, you know. Knew what you meant.”

This was so clearly untrue that Fifi and Awful, scared though they were, spent the next ten minutes hanging on to each other trying not to laugh. Howard crossly pushed a mug of tea and a sandwich at the Goon. The Goon put his knife away and took them without a word. Slurp, he went at the tea, and he ate the sandwich without once closing his mouth. Howard had to look away.

“But why have you come?” he burst out angrily. “Are you sure you’ve come to the right house?”

The Goon nodded. He gulped down the last of the sandwich and then got his knife out again to scrape bits of bread from between his teeth. “Your dad called Quentin Sykes?” he said around the sharp edge of it. “Writes books and things?”

Howard nodded. His heart sank. Dad must have written something rude about this Archer person. It had happened before. “What’s Dad done?”

The Goon jerked his little head at Fifi. “Told her. Sykes got behind with his payment. Archer wants his two thousand. Here to collect it.”

The smiles were wiped off Fifi’s and Awful’s faces. “Two thousand!” Fifi exclaimed. “You never told me that!”

“Who is Archer?” said Howard.

The Goon shrugged his huge shoulders. “Archer farms this part of town. Your dad pays, Archer doesn’t make trouble.” He grinned, almost sweetly, and sucked the last bit of bread off the point of his knife. “Got trouble now. Got me.”

“Phone the police,” said Awful.

The Goon’s smile broadened. He took his knife by its point and wagged it at Awful. “Better not,” he said. “Really bett’n’t had.” They exchanged looks again. It seemed to all of them, even Awful, that the Goon’s advice was good. The Goon nodded when he saw them look and held his mug out for more tea. “Quite peaceful really,” he remarked placidly. “Like this house. Civilised.”

“Oh, do you?” Howard said as Fifi filled the Goon’s mug. “Just as well you like it because Dad won’t be in for ages yet. It’s his day for teaching at the Polytechnic.”

“Easily wait,” the Goon said.

“Does Mum know about Archer?” Awful asked.

“No idea,” said the Goon.

This had been worrying Howard, too. He was sure Mum did not know and would be very upset when she found out. She worried all the time about how short of money they were. He realised that he simply had to get the Goon out of the house before Mum came home. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you and I go along to the Poly? We can find Dad there and ask him.”

The Goon’s little head nodded. The grin he raised from drinking tea was big and sly. “You go,” he said. “Me and the little girl stay here. Teach her some manners.”

“I’m not staying with him!” Awful said.

“Eat your tea,” said Fifi. “We’d better all go, Howard.”

“That suit you?” Howard asked the Goon.

The Goon considered, idly scraping the point of his knife around his mug of tea. The noise made them all shiver. Chips and gouges of china fell out of the mug on to his faded jeans. That knife, Howard thought, must be made of something most unusual, something which could cut china and come back to you when it was thrown. “All go then,” the Goon said at last. “All keep where I can see you.” He put the scraped, carved mug on the floor and waited for Awful to finish eating. When she had, he stood up.

They found themselves backing away from him. He was even larger than they had thought. His little head grazed the ceiling. His long arms dangled. Fifi and Awful looked tiny beside him. Howard, who was used to finding himself as big as most people these days, suddenly felt small and skinny and feeble beside the Goon. He saw it was no good trying to run away when they got outside. They would have to trick the Goon somehow. He was obviously very 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 words. Someone seems to have sent me a hired assassin—”

“Not killed anyone yet!” the Goon protested.

“You shut up,” said Quentin. “He says the words are overdue. Now I know I sent them to you, just as usual, nearly a week ago—”

The rich voice rumbled on the telephone. And rumbled more. Quentin’s face clouded and then began to look exasperated. He cut through the rumbling to say, “And who is Archer?” The voice rumbled some more. “Thank you,” said Quentin. He put the phone down and turned to the Goon, sighing.

The Goon’s grin grew wide again. “Didn’t get them, did he?”

“No,” Quentin admitted. “They do seem to have gone astray. But he’ll give me another week to—” He stopped because the Goon’s little head was shaking slowly from side to side. “Now look here!”

“Archer won’t wait,” said the Goon. “Want to go without electricity? Or gas? Archer farms power.”

“I know,” Quentin said angrily. “Mountjoy just told me.”

“Do the words again,” said the Goon.

“Oh, all right,” Quentin said. “Come on, all of you. Let’s get back home and get it over with.”

They marched silently back with the Goon looming over them. Howard was aching to ask his father what on earth was going on, but he did not get a chance. As soon as they reached the house, the Goon took up his former place, filling half the kitchen, and Quentin hurried to his study. The sound of typing came from there, in little rattling bursts, with long pauses in between. Awful went to the front room where she turned on the television and sat brooding on bad things to do to the Goon. At least, Howard thought thankfully, Mum had not come in yet. He hoped very much that Dad could finish his typing and get rid of the Goon before she did.

In the kitchen Fifi was climbing back and forth across the Goon’s legs again. “Help me get supper started at least, Howard, there’s a love,” she said. “Your mum’s going to be so depressed when she comes in and finds all this going on!”

Catriona Sykes came in five minutes after that. She came in with her eyes shut, tottering, meaning it had been a bad day. Her job was organising music in schools, and she got headaches from it. She put a stack of music, the evening paper, a tape deck, a bundle of recorders and a set of cymbals down on the table, and fell into a chair by feel, with her hands to her head.

Howard watched the relief fading off her face as she listened to the sounds in the house and began to realise something was wrong. He saw her locate Awful by the sound of the television, and Quentin by the clattering of the typewriter, then Fifi by the hurried pouring of hot water into the coffee mug Fifi had ready. Howard saw Catriona follow the haste with which Fifi handed the mug to him and locate Howard by his footsteps hurriedly stepping over the Goon’s legs to give her the coffee. A frown grew on her face. As she took the mug, her head tilted to catch the scraping from the Goon’s knife as he sat cleaning his nails. She took a deep drink of the coffee, pushed her hair back and opened her eyes to look at the Goon.

“Who are you?” she said.

He grinned his daft grin at her. “Goon,” he said.

“I mean,” said Catriona, “what is your name?”

Howard’s mother had a very strong personality. But so had the Goon in his way. The room seemed thick with them. Howard and Fifi both held their breath. “Goon will do,” said the Goon, and went on grinning.

Catriona gave him a long, level look. Then, to Howard’s surprise, she smiled quite pleasantly. “You look strong,” she said. “There’s a set of drums in my car. Help Howard get them in before they get damp or stolen.”

And to Howard’s further surprise, the Goon got to his feet and loomed through the room. “Where to?” he asked Howard.

The Goon was so strong that all Howard needed to do was show him the car and unlock the back. The Goon carried the drum set, bumping and booming, and set it down with a further boom in the hall. Then he went back to his chair in the kitchen. There Howard could see his mother had been asking Fifi what was going on. Fifi was looking upset. Catriona was taking it all much more calmly than Howard would have expected. She was just looking gloomily mystified.

“I don’t mind as long as he’s quiet,” she said to Howard. “I’ve been listening to school orchestras all day – have you done your violin practice? – and my head’s splitting.” And before Howard needed to lie about the violin, she looked at the Goon and said, “Who is Archer?”

The Goon looked back. He had a short think. “Farms power,” he said. “Gas and electricity. Money, too. Won’t worry you. You come under Torquil.”

“You mean he’s a town councillor?” Catriona asked.

That amused the Goon highly. He threw back his little head and laughed and clapped his long thigh with his vast hand. “That’s good!” he said. “Look like the Council, do I?”

“No, I can’t say that you do,” said Catriona. She seemed utterly unable to find the Goon alarming. “He seems harmless enough,” she said to Howard as she got up to help Fifi cook. “Move your feet,” she said to the Goon. And the Goon did. He bent his legs up until his knees were near his ears and sat looking like a huge, ungainly grasshopper while Catriona got supper ready. Howard began to see that his mother had found the right way to manage the Goon. He tried it himself when he was setting the table. He told the Goon to get out of the way of the spoon drawer, and the Goon did and grinned at him. “Set for six, Howard,” Catriona said. “I expect the Goon would like some liver and bacon, too.”

“Would!” the Goon said. He inhaled fried onions and grinned deeply.

Howard began to feel that Mum was not taking a serious enough view of the Goon. When supper was ready, and Quentin’s typewriter was still doing bursts of clattering, Catriona said, “Howard, call your father and Awful.”

“Not Sykes. Let him keep at it,” the Goon said.

Catriona accepted this without even asking why and sent Howard into the study with a tray. Quentin looked up absently from his typewriter and said, “Put it down on those papers.” He did not seem alarmed or anxious either.

“Dad,” said Howard, “I think Mum’s got the wrong idea. She’s giving the Goon supper. You don’t give hired assassins supper, do you?”

Quentin smiled. “No, but when a wolf follows your sleigh, you give it meat,” he said. Howard could tell he was only half-serious. “Leave me in peace, or we’ll never get rid of him.”

Howard went back to the kitchen, rather exasperated. He found the Goon sheepishly trying to wedge his knees under the table and Awful protesting. “I’m not going to have supper with him!” she was saying. “He threw his knife at me.”

“Shouldn’t have screamed,” said the Goon. The table lifted on top of his knees and things began to slide off one end. Fifi caught them. She looked as exasperated as Howard felt. The Goon slid Catriona an embarrassed look and doubled his legs around the back of his chair. He was really almost kneeling like that, and he looked very uncomfortable.

“He did, Mum!” Awful shrilled. “And he smells.” When Catriona took no notice, Awful announced, “I hate everyone except Fifi.”

“What have I done to get hated?” Howard demanded.

“You were scared of the Goon,” Awful said.

Howard found himself exchanging a shamed look with the Goon. “Scare myself sometimes,” the Goon remarked, cautiously picking up a knife and fork. He was trying to behave properly. He kept glancing nervously at Catriona and Fifi to see how he was doing, and he made strong efforts to keep his mouth shut while he chewed. Howard thought he nearly choked once or twice. Even so, the Goon managed to eat huge amounts. Howard had never seen such a stack of potatoes on anyone’s plate before. When he had finished, the Goon retreated quickly to the chair he had sat in before and sat in everyone’s way again, picking his teeth with his knife and looking relieved.

“Wouldn’t you like to watch the telly in the other room?” Fifi asked him after she had fallen over his legs six times.

But the Goon shook his little head and sat on. He sat while Fifi cleared away and then went up to her room in the attic. He sat while Catriona washed up. When Catriona went away too, and the Goon was still sitting, Howard thought he had better stay in the kitchen as well. He felt someone ought to watch him. So Howard fetched out his bag of books, with the rip in it that the Goon had made, and tried to do homework on the kitchen table. He found it hard to concentrate. With the Goon sitting there, he did not feel he could spend half the time designing spaceships, as he usually did. He could feel the Goon’s round eyes staring at him and see the knife that had ripped his bag flashing at the corner of his eye. When at last Quentin came into the kitchen carrying four typewritten pages, Howard was heartily relieved.

The Goon sprang up, looking as relieved as Howard. He took the pages and examined them. Howard was quite surprised that the Goon seemed able to read.

“That will have to do,” Quentin said as the Goon looked questioningly at him. “It’s not quite the same as I sent Mountjoy, but it’s as near as I could manage from memory.”

“Not a copy?” asked the Goon.

“Definitely no copy,” Quentin assured him.

The Goon nodded, folded the papers and stuffed them into the front of his leather jacket. “Get along to Archer then,” he said. “See you.” And he loomed his way to the back door, tore it open, ducked his little head under the lintel and went away.

As soon as the door slammed, Catriona and Awful shot into the kitchen. “Has he gone?” said Awful, and Catriona said, “Now tell us what all that was about.”

“Nothing – nothing at all really,” Quentin said, in a way which everyone knew was much too airy. “Mountjoy’s idea of a joke, that’s all.”

Catriona fixed him with her most powerful look. “Quentin,” she said, “that won’t do. He talked about Archer, not Mountjoy. Explain.”

“But I can’t explain about Archer,” said Quentin. He sat in the Goon’s chair and stretched. “I only know Mountjoy. Make me a cup of tea, Awful.” As Awful set off readily towards the kettle, he added swiftly, “With boiling water and two tea bags and only milk in the cup. Curry, mustard, pepper and vinegar are strictly forbidden.”

“Bother you!” said Awful. One of the things she enjoyed most was making people curried tea.

“What a life!” said Quentin. “I have to bargain even to get a cup of tea. What does it matter to Awful that I am a famous writer and my name is a household word?”

“So is ‘drains’ a household word,” said Awful as she filled the kettle. “Mum, he’s putting us off.”

“No, I’m not. I’m just arranging my thoughts,” Quentin said.

“Then stop blathering,” said Catriona. “Tell us why on earth he wanted you to write two thousand words.”

“He didn’t. It must be Mountjoy,” said Quentin. He clasped his hands behind his head and stared thoughtfully down at the soft curve of paunch that stuck his sweater out. “Though come to think of it,” he murmured, “Mountjoy did mention a superior once, about eight years ago. I’d forgotten that. Anyway, as far as I knew, it was Mountjoy’s idea – a sort of joke – to cure my writer’s block. Mountjoy’s quite respectable, you know. There’s nothing underhand about him. I met him playing golf a few months before we had Howard, when I was suffering terribly from writer’s block and telling everyone—”

“I remember,” said Catriona. “You told the milkman about it until he refused to come to the house.”

“Well, it’s a terrible condition,” Quentin said plaintively. “You three are lucky not to know what it’s like. You haven’t a thought in your head, or if you have, you can’t somehow get it down on paper, or if you do manage to put something down, it goes small and boring and doesn’t lead anywhere. And you panic because you can’t earn any money, and that makes it worse. It can go on for years, too—”

Howard was just thinking that he was glad he did not intend to be a writer – designing spaceships seemed much easier – when Awful interrupted. “I know,” she said. “It’s like when they tell me in school, ‘Make a drawing of ancient Britons,’ and I can’t because I’m not in a drawing mood.”

“Yes,” said Quentin. “Very like that. So you see how relieved I was when Mountjoy rang me up and said come to his office and discuss an idea he had had to break my block. He swore he could do it. And he was right. What I was to do, he said, was to promise to send him every three months two thousand words of any old thing that came into my head. It had to be new, and by me, and not a copy of anything else I’d done, and I was to deliver it to him at the Town Hall. I said, but suppose I couldn’t even do that? And Mountjoy laughed and said here was the clever bit. I was to imagine he had the ability to stop the Council from supplying me with water and gas and light and to order them not to empty my dustbins and so on. He said if I made myself scared enough of that, I’d have no difficulty in writing his two thousand words. And he was right. I’m still grateful to Mountjoy. I went home and did him the first two thousand words, and as soon as I had, I began to write books again like a demon. I wrote Prying Manticora that same month. And the first draft of Stark in—”

“But wait a minute,” Catriona said, frowning. “If you’ve been sending Mountjoy stuff for thirteen years, and he’s been passing it on to this Archer, then Archer must have masses of it by now. What does he do with it?”

“Do you think Archer publishes it?” Howard asked. “He could be making a lot of money out of you.”

His father shook his head, rather uncomfortably. “He couldn’t, Howard. I always write really idiotic things that nobody would want to publish. Most of them aren’t even finished. You can’t get much into four pages. I’ll tell you – last year I sent Mountjoy a solemn discussion about what to do if rabbits suddenly started eating meat. This time it was about old ladies rioting in Corn Street.”

“What do you do about that?” Awful asked, bringing Quentin a slopping mug of weak grey tea.

“Dodge their handbags,” said Quentin. “Thanks.”

“No, stupid, I mean the rabbits,” said Awful.

“Set them catching mice, of course,” said Quentin. “No, Howard, I’d have noticed if anyone printed any of those things. I assure you, nobody ever has.”

“And is this the first time Mountjoy didn’t get the words?” Howard asked.

Quentin shook his head again. “It’s the first time they’ve gone astray, but there have been several times when I didn’t get around to doing them. Mountjoy never minds – except there was that one time…” Quentin stared at his tea, looking puzzled. “It was just after Awful was born,” he said. “You must remember, Catriona. She kept us awake every night for a month, and I was too busy trying to catch up on sleep to write anything. And quite suddenly, everything in the house was cut off. We’d no light and no heat, no electricity, no water, and the car wouldn’t go either—”

“Yes, I do remember,” said Catriona. “Howard screaming as well as Awful, because he was cold, and all the washing. Didn’t they say it was some sort of freak? I remember we kept having people to mend things and they said there was nothing wrong. What happened?”

“I went round to see Mountjoy,” said Quentin. “It was superstition really. And I remember he looked rather taken aback and muttered something about his superior’s not being as patient as he was. Then he laughed and told me to write the words and probably everything would come right. So I did. And all the power came back on while I was doing them. I really can’t explain that.”

He raised the tea to his mouth at last. Awful watched expectantly. “But I really can’t explain Archer’s Goon eith—” He took the mug away from his mouth again, with a sigh. “Don’t tell me, Awful. I forgot to say don’t put salt in it. What have you done to this mug?”

Quentin held the mug up to the light. There seemed to be big wobbly shapes carved into both sides of it.

“The Goon did that,” said Awful. “With his knife and there’s no salt in it, only sugar. He threw the knife at me, but it stayed in his hand.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Awful,” said Catriona. Very sane and severe, she took the mug and looked at it and felt the dents with her finger. “This can’t have been done with a knife. These marks are glazed over. It must have come like that from the shop.”

“The Goon did do it,” said Howard. “I saw him, too.”

Quentin took the mug back and held it up to the light again. “Then perhaps he tried to carve G for Goon,” he suggested jokingly. “It’s either a V or a Y on the other side. Do you think it’s A for Archer upside down?”

Howard knew from this that his father was not going to treat the matter of the Goon seriously. And he knew his mother was not either when she laughed and said, “Well, Quentin, make sure you do Mountjoy’s words in future. We don’t want Archer sending any more Goons round.”

In a way, it was a weight off Howard’s mind. The Goon had scared him. But if neither of his parents was worried, then that made it all right. He went upstairs to his room and sat comfortably among his posters of astronauts and aeroplanes, designing another spaceship until it was bedtime, and tried not to think of the Goon. But his mind would keep straying to all those words his father kept sending to Archer. What could Archer possibly do with them? Why did he want them badly enough to send the Goon for them?

During the night the set of drums the Goon had carried into the hall started to boom softly. Most of the family would not have noticed had not Catriona been so sensitive to noise. She woke everyone up three times, getting up and going downstairs to slacken them. She thought they must be vibrating to the traffic outside. But they continued to give out a gentle humming throb.

Catriona got up again and padded them with handkerchiefs. She got up again and filled them with socks. Finally, she woke everyone up for a fifth time by going and hurling all the spare blankets over them, with a mighty BOOM. Even then, she claimed, she could still hear them throbbing.

“Your mother spent the whole night listening to her own ears,” Quentin said irritably, shuffling into the kitchen with his hair on end and his eyes half-shut. “Where are my emergency supplies of tea?”

“Your paunch is sticking out of your pyjamas,” Awful said. “The Goon did them.”

“It was that Goon that last touched them,” Fifi yawned.

“What have I done to deserve Awful?” Quentin demanded. “Fifi, forget the Goon and save my life by giving me some tea. Everyone forget the Goon.”

Howard willingly forgot the Goon. He went to school and spent the day happily designing spaceships. He forgot the Goon so completely that it was a real shock to him when he came out of school with his friends at the end of the afternoon and found the Goon towering like a lighthouse on the pavement outside. The Goon saw Howard. Recognition came over his little face in slow motion. He turned and came wading towards him above the crowd.

Howard went suddenly from being the one who stuck out above the crowd to feeling frail and weak and kneehigh. He looked around for help. But all his friends, finding themselves in the path of the Goon, had quickly thought of things they needed to do elsewhere. Somehow they were gone, leaving the Goon towering above Howard.

“Came back,” the Goon pointed out, grinning as he loomed.

“So you did,” said Howard. “I almost didn’t notice. What do you want now?”

“Those words,” the Goon said. “They’re no good.”

“What do you expect me to do about it?” said Howard.

“Your dad home today?” asked the Goon.

“Yes,” said Howard. “I think so.”

“Go there with you and tell him,” said the Goon.

Since the Goon was not a person you contradicted, they set out side by side. Howard said resentfully, “Why do you have to go with me? Can’t you go by yourself?”

The Goon’s little face grinned down at him from beyond the Goon’s huge shoulder. “Not scared of me,” he said.

“Oh yes I am,” said Howard. “Just seeing you makes me feel ill.”

The Goon grinned again. “Tell you things,” he said enticingly. “About Archer and the rest.”

“I don’t want to know,” said Howard. But he found himself asking anxiously almost at once, “Is Archer annoyed the words are no good?”

The Goon nodded and looked triumphant. “Like me really,” he said smugly.

“I don’t like you. Nobody could,” said Howard. “What will Archer do?”

“Send me,” said the Goon.

“Are you going to make trouble for Dad today?” Howard asked.

“Maybe,” said the Goon.

“In that case,” said Howard as a sort of experiment, “we’ll go somewhere else.” He turned round and walked the other way. The Goon turned round and walked beside him. “Where shall we go?” said Howard.

“Want to see Archer? Or one of the others?” the Goon offered.

“Let’s see Mr Mountjoy,” said Howard, not really meaning it.

“All right,” the Goon said equably.

Considerably to his astonishment, Howard found himself walking briskly to the centre of town, up Corn Street and along High Street, with the Goon towering beside him. They came to the Town Hall and climbed the steps briskly, just as if they had real business there. Someone will stop us soon, Howard thought.

They pushed open the big door and entered a wide marble hall. Howard thought he saw out of the corner of his eye some men in uniform who could have been policemen, but when he looked, they seemed to have melted away, just as his friends had. His footsteps and the Goon’s rang briskly through the hall as they went to a window marked ‘Enquiries’. There was a rather fierce-looking lady sitting at a desk behind the window. Before Howard could speak to her, the Goon found a door beside the window. He calmly tore it open and loomed over the fierce lady’s desk.

“What do you want?” asked the lady, tipping her head back ungraciously in order to see the Goon’s face.

The Goon smiled affably. “Mountjoy?”

The lady was one of those who take pleasure in denying people things. She took pleasure in saying, “Mr Mountjoy doesn’t see casual callers. You have to have an appointment.”

The Goon said, “Extension six-oh-nine. Where’s that?”

“Over in the housing department,” said the lady. “But—”

“Where’s that?” said the Goon.

“But I’m not telling you,” finished the lady.

The Goon jerked his head at Howard. “Go and look for it,” he said.

“You can’t do that!” the lady said, scandalised.

The Goon took no notice. He just marched out of the room and across the marble hall to the marble stairs, and Howard hurried behind. The lady shouted after them. When that did no good, she came to the door of her office and shrieked, “Come back!”

Howard very much wanted to come back by then. When the Goon stopped a few stairs up, he hoped they could go away now, before they got arrested. But the Goon simply called across the empty space to her, “Mountjoy?”

“I’m not telling you!” shrieked the lady. “Come back!”

The Goon jerked his head to Howard again, and they went on up the stairs. The next twenty minutes were the most harrowing ones Howard had ever spent. The Goon, smiling his daft smile, simply walked calmly into every room they came to. They went into offices, filing rooms, planning rooms, committee rooms, reference rooms, private rooms and public rooms.

Howard kept thinking: We’ll be arrested soon! We can’t do this! And certainly from time to time, agitated people no bigger than Howard did seem to try to bar the Goon’s way; but either the Goon smiled his daft smile at them and put them aside, or he said, “Mountjoy?” and when they shook their heads, he went on. Most people melted away before the Goon got that near.

Like a Centurion tank through butter! Howard thought, hazy with embarrassment. The Goon went, and Howard followed. One room with a large table and a carpet actually had a committee meeting in it, twelve or so people sitting at the table. As the Goon marched in, a man in a dark suit said angrily, “This is the highway board, not a public thoroughfare!” The Goon smiled his daft grin at the man, spotted a door across the room, and homed in on it in great strides over the carpet. The angry man picked up a telephone and started to talk indignantly into it. This time, Howard thought as he pattered after the Goon, we shall be arrested! He was so embarrassed by then that he hoped it would be soon.

But the Goon seemed unstoppable. He took Howard up some more stairs and then strode down a long corridor with frosted windows, which evidently led to another wing of the Town Hall. He tore open the door at the end. Inside there was a chain of offices, where people were typing at desks or walking about, consulting plans of buildings. The Goon turned his grin on Howard. “Getting warm.” He marched down the chain of rooms, and Howard followed, past the usual small people trying to stop them and the usual indignant faces, and made for a door at the end. A notice on it read M. J. MOUNTJOY. The Goon’s huge hand tore this door open, too. The man inside looked up with a jump.

“Here you are,” the Goon said to Howard. “Mountjoy.” He beamed proudly at Mountjoy, as if Mountjoy were treasure and the Goon had dug him up.

“That is my name,” Mr Mountjoy said. He looked uncertainly from the Goon to Howard in his school blazer, with his bag of books hung from his shoulder. His eyes went to the tape with which Howard had mended the rip the Goon had made in the bag and then back to the Goon. It was clear he thought they made an odd pair. Mr Mountjoy himself wore a neat dark suit. He was largish and plumpish, with smooth hair and large, shrewd eyes. He was exactly the kind of man Howard had imagined to go with the smooth, rumbling voice on the telephone.

“Talk to him,” the Goon said to Howard.

“Er—” said Howard. “My father’s Quentin Sykes—”

Before he got any further, the open door behind them was crammed with anxious people who all wanted to know if Mr Mountjoy was all right. They liked Mr Mountjoy, and they wanted him safe. Howard felt more embarrassed than ever. Several of the men wanted to know if they should turn the Goon out. The Goon turned and looked at them as if this were a very surprising notion. Not so much surprising as impossible, Howard thought.

Mr Mountjoy straightened his sober tie uneasily. “I’m quite all right, thank you,” he said in a soothing rumble. “Please shut the door. Everything is under control.” But as the people crowded out of the room, Howard distinctly heard Mr Mountjoy add, “I hope!” When the door shut, he eased his tie looser and his eyes went to the Goon, fascinated. “You were saying, young man?” he said to Howard.

“Why do you really make my father send you two thousand words every three months?” said Howard.

Mr Mountjoy smiled. “I don’t make him do it, young man. It’s just a friendly device I thought of to keep him from drying up again.”

The smile was sincere, and the voice such a friendly, soothing rumble that Howard felt thoroughly ashamed of asking. He turned to go away.

“Not true,” the Goon remarked pleasantly.

Mr Mountjoy gave the Goon an alarmed, fleeting look. “But it is. Quentin Sykes hadn’t been able to write anything for nearly a year after his second book came out. I liked the book and I was sorry for the man, so I hit on a way to get him going again. It’s a sort of joke between us by now.”

“Not true,” the Goon remarked, less pleasantly and more firmly.

That changed Howard’s mind. “No, I don’t think it is,” he said. “If it’s a joke, why did you stop all the water and electricity in our house one time when he didn’t do the words?”

“That had nothing to do with me,” Mr Mountjoy said sincerely. “It may well have been a complete coincidence. If it was my superior – and I admit I have a superior – then he told me nothing about it at all.”

“Was it Archer who did it?” asked Howard.

Mr Mountjoy shrugged and spread his plumpish hands towards Howard, to show he knew nothing about that either. “Who knows? I don’t.”

“And what does Archer do with the words?” said Howard. “Who is Archer anyway? Lord Mayor or something?”

Mr Mountjoy laughed, shook his head and began spreading his hands again, to show he really did not know anything. But before his hands were half-spread, the Goon’s enormous hand came down from behind Howard’s shoulder. It landed across Mr Mountjoy’s gesturing hands and trapped both of them down on Mr Mountjoy’s desk.

“Tell him,” said the Goon.

Mr Mountjoy pulled at his hands, but like Awful before him, he found that made no impression on the Goon at all. He became hurt and astonished. “Really! My dear sir! Please let me go.”

“Talk,” said the Goon.

“I deplore your choice of friends,” Mr Mountjoy said to Howard. “Does your father know the company you keep?”

The Goon looked bored. “Have to stay here all night,” he said to Howard. He propped himself on the fist that was holding down Mr Mountjoy’s hands and yawned.

Mr Mountjoy gave a strangled squeak and struggled a little. “Let go! You’re squashing my hands, and I’ll have you know I’m a keen pianist!” His voice was nearly a yelp. “All right. I’ll tell you the little bit I know! But you’re to let go first!”

The Goon unpropped himself. “Can always do it again,” he told Howard reassuringly.

Mr Mountjoy rubbed his hands together and felt each of his fingers, morbidly, as if he had thought one or two might be missing. “I’ve no idea what Archer wants with the blessed words!” he said peevishly. “I don’t even know if it’s Archer I send them to. All I’ve ever heard is his voice on the telephone. It could be any of them.”

“Any of who?” Howard said, mystified.

“Any of the seven people who really run this town,” said Mr Mountjoy. “Archer’s one. The others are Dillian, Venturus, Torquil, Erskine and – what are their names? Oh, yes. Hathaway and Shine. They’re all brothers.”

“How do you know?” demanded the Goon.

“I made it my business to find out,” Mr Mountjoy said. “Wouldn’t you, if one of them made you do something this peculiar for them?”

“Shouldn’t have done,” said the Goon. “Won’t like that. Know. Working for Archer.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Mr Mountjoy said. “I concede that you may not have much brain. You don’t appear to have room for one. But this is an odd place to be if I work for Archer, too.”

“Doing him a favour,” said the Goon, pointing a parsnip-sized thumb at Howard. He said to Howard, “Know I’m your friend now. Want to know any more?”

“Um – yes,” said Howard. “How does he send the words to whoever it is?”

“I address them to a post office box number and send a typist out to post them,” said Mr Mountjoy. “I really know nothing more. I have tried to find out who collects them, and I have failed.”

“So you don’t know how this last lot went missing?” said Howard.

“It never reached me,” said Mr Mountjoy. “Now do you mind taking your large friend and going away? I have work to do.”

“Pleasure,” said the Goon. He put both hands on the desk and leaned towards Mr Mountjoy. “Tell us the back way out.”

“I bear you no malice,” Mr Mountjoy said hastily. “The door at the end. Marked ‘Emergency Stairs’.” He picked up a folder labelled ‘Centre development: Polytechnic’ and pretended to be very busy reading it.

The Goon jerked his head at Howard in the way Howard was now used to and progressed out into the offices again. Heads lifted from typewriters and frozen faces watched them as they progressed right down to the end of the rooms. Here, sure enough, was a door with wire mesh set into the glass of it. ‘Fire Door,’ it said in red letters, ‘Emergency Stairs.’ The Goon slung it open, and they went out on to a long flight of concrete stairs.

The Goon raced down these stairs surprisingly quickly and quietly. Howard’s knees trembled rather as he followed. He was scared now. They kept galloping down past other wire-and-glass doors, and some of these were bumping open and shut. Howard could see the dark shapes of people milling about behind them, and at least twice he heard some of the things they said. “Walked straight through the highway board!” a woman said behind the first. Lower down, someone was calling out, “They went up that way, Officer!” Howard put his head down and bounded two stairs at a time to keep up with the Goon. Scared as he was, he was rather impressed. The Goon certainly got results.

At the bottom of the stairs a heavy swing door let them out into a back yard crowded with gigantic rubbish bins on wheels. Here Howard, as he threaded his way after the Goon, remembered to his annoyance that he had forgotten to ask Mr Mountjoy how Archer – or whichever brother it was – had first got hold of Mr Mountjoy and made him work for him. But it was clearly too late to go back and ask that now.

The yard led to a car park and the car park led to a side street. At the main road the Goon stuck his head round the corner and looked towards the front of the Town Hall, about fifty yards away. Three police cars were parked beside the steps with their lights flashing and their doors open. The Goon grinned and turned the other way. “Dillian nearly got us,” he remarked.

“Dillian?” asked Howard, trotting to keep up.

“Dillian farms law and order,” said the Goon.

“Oh,” said Howard. “Let’s go and see Archer now.”

But the Goon said, “Got to see your dad about the words,” and Howard found himself hurrying towards home instead. When the Goon decided to go anywhere, he set that way like a strong current, and there seemed nothing Howard could do about it.

Five minutes later Howard and the Goon turned right past the corner shop into Upper Park Street. Howard was rather glad to see it. He liked the rows of tall, comfortable houses and the big tree outside Number 8. He was even glad to see the hopscotch that Awful and her friends kept chalking on the pavement – when Awful was not quarrelling with those friends, that was. But the thing which made him gladdest of all was to see his own house – Number 10 – without a police car standing outside it. He had been dreading that. Mr Mountjoy had only to say who Howard’s father was.

Dad was in the kitchen with Fifi and Awful, eating peanut butter sandwiches. All their faces fixed in dismay as the Goon ducked his little head and came through the back door after Howard.

Quentin said, “Not again!” and Fifi said, “The Goon returns. Mr Sykes, he haunts us!”

Awful glowered. “It’s all Howard’s fault,” she said.

“What’s that noise?” said the Goon.

It was the drums, throbbing gently from under the mound of blankets in the hall. Quentin sighed. “They’ve been doing that all day.”

“Fix them,” said the Goon, and progressed through the kitchen into the hall. Howard paused to take a peanut butter sandwich, so he was too late to see what the Goon did to the drums. By the time he got there the blankets had been tossed aside and the Goon was standing with his fists on his hips, staring at the slack and silent drums oozing socks and handkerchiefs. He grinned at Howard. “Torquil,” he said.

“Torquil what?” asked Howard.

“Did that,” said the Goon, and marched back to the kitchen. There he stood and stared at Quentin the same way he had stared at the drums.

“Don’t tell me,” said Quentin. “Let me guess. Archer is not satisfied. He has counted the words and found there were only one thousand and ninety-nine.”

The Goon shook his head, grinning as usual. “Two thousand and four,” he said.

“Well, I thought I’d better end the last sentence,” Quentin said. “Mountjoy never insisted on an exact number.”

The Goon said, “Mountjoy must have told you something else then.” He dived a hand into the front of his leather jacket and brought out the four typed pages, now grey and used-looking and bent. He thrust them at Quentin at the end of a yard or so of arm. “Take a look. What’s wrong?”

Quentin took the pages and unfolded them. He separated them one from another, enough to glance at each. “This seems all right. My usual drivel. Old ladies riot in Corn Street. I couldn’t remember quite what I put in the lot Archer never got, but this is the gist—” He stopped as he realised. “Oh,” he said glumly. “It’s supposed not to be anything I’ve done before. But how the devil did Archer know?”

He looked up at the Goon. The Goon’s head nodded, so fast that it almost jittered. The daft grin spread on his face. He looked so irritating that Howard was not surprised when Quentin exploded. “Damn it!” Quentin shouted. He hurled the papers into the bread and peanut butter. “I’ve already done the words for this quarter! How can I help it if some fool in the Town Hall loses it? Why should I bother my brains for more nonsense just because you and Archer say so? Why should I put up with being bullied in my own house?”

He raged for some time. His face grew red and his hair flew. Fifi was frightened. She sat staring at Quentin with both hands to her mouth, pressed back in her chair as far away from him as possible. The Goon grinned and so did Awful, who loved Quentin raging. Howard lifted up the typewritten papers and helped himself to more bread and peanut butter while he waited for his father to finish.

“And I don’t care if I never write Archer another word!” Quentin finished. “That’s final.”

“Go on,” said Awful. “Your paunch bounces when you shout!”

“My lips are now sealed,” said Quentin. “Probably forever. My paunch may never bounce again.”

Fifi gave a feeble giggle at this, and the Goon said, “Archer wants a new two thousand.”

“Well, he won’t get it,” Quentin said. He folded his arms over his paunch and stared at the Goon.

The Goon returned the stare. “Stay here till you do it,” he observed.

“Then you’d better get yourself a camp bed and a change of clothes,” said Quentin. “You’ll be here for good. I’m not doing it.”

“Why not?” said the Goon.

Quentin ground his teeth. Everyone heard them grate. But he said quite calmly, “Perhaps you didn’t grasp what I’ve just been saying. I object to being pushed around. And I’ve got a new book coming on.” Howard and Awful both groaned at this.

Quentin looked at them coldly. “How else,” he said, “shall I earn your bread and peanut butter?”

“You look through me and fuss about noise when you’re writing a book,” Howard explained.

“And you go all grumpy and dreamy and forget to go shopping,” said Awful.

“You must learn to live with it,” said their father. “And with the Goon, too, by the looks of things, since I am going to write that book whatever he does.” And he looked at the Goon challengingly.

The Goon’s answer was to go over to the chair where they had first seen him and sit in it. He extended his great legs with the huge boots on the end of them, and the kitchen was immediately full of him. He fetched out his knife and began cleaning his nails. It was hard to believe he had ever moved.

“Make yourself quite at home,” Quentin said to him. “As the years pass, we shall all get used to you.” An idea struck him and he turned to Fifi. “Do you think people can claim tax relief for a resident Goon?”

Fifi was backing into the hall, signalling to Howard to come, too. “I don’t know,” she said helplessly. Howard and Awful followed her, wondering what was the matter. They found her backing into the front room.

“This is terrible,” Fifi whispered. She looked really upset. “It’s all my fault. I was busy when your dad gave me those words to take to the Town Hall, so I gave them to Maisie Potter to take because she was going that way.”

“Then you’d better get hold of Miss Potter,” said Howard, “or we’ll have the Goon for good.”

“Perhaps Miss Potter stole them,” said Awful. It was automatic with Awful to turn the television on whenever she came into the front room. She did it now. When the picture came on, she sprang back with one of her most piercing yells. “Look, look, look!”

Howard and Fifi looked. Instead of a picture on the screen, there were four white words on a black background. They said: ARCHER IS WATCHING YOU. It seemed as if Archer was backing the Goon up.

Fifi uttered a wail of guilt and fled to the hall, where she stood astride the drums and phoned the Poly in a whisper, so that Quentin should not hear. But the Poly had closed for the night by then. Fifi tried telephoning Miss Potter at home then, but Miss Potter was out. Miss Potter went on being out. Fifi spent the rest of the evening sneaking into the hall to stand astride the drums and dial Miss Potter’s number, but Miss Potter kept on being out. Awful meanwhile turned the television on and off and switched from channel to channel. No matter what she did, the only thing the screen showed were those four words: ARCHER IS WATCHING YOU. In the kitchen Quentin sat with his arms folded, staring obstinately at the Goon. And the Goon sat attending to his nails and filling the floor with leg.

Catriona came in quite soon after that. She was not tired that day. She stood in the doorway with an armful of sheet music and said, “Where’s Awful? I can’t hear the television. And who’s breathing so heavily?… Oh, it’s you, Quentin!” The scratching of knife on nail caused her head to turn and her eyes to travel up yards of leg to the Goon’s little face. “Why have you come back?”

The Goon grinned. Quentin snapped, “He grows here. I think he’s a form of dry rot.”

“Then he can make himself useful,” Catriona said. She gave the Goon the kind, firm, unavoidable look that seemed to work so well on him. “Take this music up to the landing for me, and then come down and help me get supper. Oh, and do you play the piano?”

The Goon shook his head earnestly. He looked really alarmed.

“What a pity,” said Catriona. “Everyone should learn the piano. I wanted you to help Awful practise. Howard, why aren’t you doing your violin practice? Hurry up, both of you.”

As Howard and the Goon both leaped to their feet, Quentin said, “You’ve forgotten me. You haven’t asked why I’m not doing anything.”

“I know about you,” Catriona said. “I can see that you’re refusing to write another two thousand words. You should have done that thirteen years ago. Hurry up, Howard!”

Howard went gloomily to look for his violin. That was the bother with Mum not being tired. He and Awful both had to practise. Dad always politely allowed them to forget. He opened the cupboard under the stairs where his violin probably was and found the Goon tiptoeing gigantically after him, looking woebegone.

“Don’t know how to cook,” the Goon said.

“She’ll tell you how,” Howard said heartlessly. “She’s in her good mood.”

The Goon’s round eyes popped. “Good mood?”

Howard nodded. “Good mood.” The Goon’s way of talking was catching. He dragged his violin out from under a heap of Wellington boots and took it away upstairs, feeling really hopeful. An hour or so of Mum in her good mood might persuade even the Goon to leave.

Howard was not much good at playing the violin, but he was good at getting practice done. He set his alarm clock for twenty minutes later and spent four of the minutes sort of tuning strings. Then he put the violin under his chin and disconnected his mind. He let the bow rasp and wail, while he designed a totally new spaceship for carrying heavy goods, articulated so that it could thread its way among asteroids and powered by a revolutionary FTL drive.

That did not take long, so he spent another few minutes looking at himself in the mirror as he played, trying to see himself as the pilot of that spaceship. Although he was so tall, his face was annoyingly round and boyish. But the violin at least gave him several manly chins – though not as many as Dad had – and he thought that now that he had grown his straight tawnyish hair into a long fringe, his eyes stared out keenly beneath it. He could almost imagine those eyes playing over banks of instruments and dials or gazing out on hitherto unknown suns.

After ten minutes he was able to stop playing. Mum had told Awful to do her piano practice. Howard knew from experience that the resulting screams drowned everything else. He listened and from time to time drew the bow across the strings – so that he could truthfully say he had been playing the whole time – and felt more hopeful than ever. The Goon had proved sensitive to noise from Awful. Surely he would not be able to stand much more?

Finally, Awful’s screams died away to a sultry sobbing. Howard scribbled the bow about for another half minute. Then his alarm went off and he was able to go downstairs. He passed Fifi dialling Miss Potter again in the hall. In the kitchen Quentin was still sitting, still looking obstinate. Awful was lying on the floor, gulping, “Shan’t practise. Won’t practise. Want television. I shall die and then you’ll be sorry!” And the Goon, far from being driven away, was at the sink, laboriously carving potatoes down to the size of marbles and sweating with the effort.

“Very good!” Catriona told the Goon kindly.

“Now just peel the peel, and we might have enough to eat,” Howard said. The Goon gave him a wondering stare.

“Don’t tax his mind, Howard. He’s on overload already,” Quentin said.

“Want television!” bawled Awful.

Howard went away into the hall. It was funny, he thought, that Mum could control the Goon perfectly, yet she could never make Awful do anything at all. “Any luck?” he asked Fifi as she put down the phone.

“No,” Fifi said despairingly. “I’ll have to wait and try to catch her after the lecture tomorrow. Oh, Howard! I do feel so guilty!”

“She’s probably just forgotten you asked her to do it,” Howard said.

“She never forgets anything – not Maisie Potter!” said Fifi. “That’s why I asked her to do it. Howard, I’m afraid the Goon might stick his knife into your dad!”

“Not while Mum’s here,” said Howard. “Anyway, I don’t think Dad’s frightened of the Goon. He’s just annoyed.”

By the time supper was ready Awful had sobbed herself into the state where you feel ill. When she got like that, she could often make herself sick. She crawled under the table and made hopeful vomiting noises. She knew that would put everyone off supper anyway.

“Stop it, Awful!” everyone shouted. “Stop her, Howard!”

Howard got down on to his knees and looked into Awful’s angry, swollen face. “Do stop it,” he said. “You can have my coloured pencils if you stop.”

“Don’t want them,” said Awful. “I want to be disgustingly sick.”

The table above them lifted and sloped sharply. Howard found the Goon had got down on his knees too, half under the table. Fifi was catching knives and glasses as they slid off. “Bet you can’t be sick,” the Goon said to Awful. “Go on. Interested.”

Awful glowered at him.

“Let me try?” suggested the Goon. “Both do it. Bet I win.”

Awful’s swollen face began to look interested. She shrugged crossly. The Goon stuck his head out from under the table and looked at Quentin.

“Mind if we use the bathroom? Competition.”

The little head staring across the table looked rather as if it were on a plate. Quentin shut his eyes. “Do what you like. I don’t deserve any of this!”

“Come on,” the Goon said to Awful.

Awful scrambled out willingly. “I’m going to win,” she announced as they left.

Five minutes later they came back. Awful looked smug, and the Goon looked green. “Who won?” asked Howard.

“She did,” said the Goon. He seemed subdued and not very hungry. Awful, on the other hand, was thoroughly pleased and amiable and ate a great deal.

Howard was exasperated. If even Awful at her very worst could not send the Goon away, what would? The Goon ate the small amount he seemed able to manage with painstaking good manners and kept his feet wrapped dutifully around the back of his chair, so as not to lift the table.

And as if this were not enough, Catriona was grateful to the Goon for putting Awful in a good mood again. She began thinking of him as a proper visitor and wondering where he should sleep. “I wish we had a spare room,” she said. “But we haven’t, with Fifi here.”

Fifi and Howard were not the only ones who found this a bit much. “Get this quite clear,” Quentin said. “If he decides to stay, it’s his bad luck. He can sleep on the kitchen floor for all I care!”

“Quentin! That’s unfeeling!” said Catriona.

Howard made haste to get away again upstairs, where he barricaded himself into his room. He knew what would happen if he did not. His mother would give the Goon Howard’s room and make Howard share with Awful. And Howard was not making that sacrifice – not for the Goon! All the same, he was surprised to find, while he was wedging a chair under his doorknob, that he felt a little guilty. The Goon had helped him find Mountjoy and had made Mountjoy answer his questions. He seemed to want Howard to like him. “But I don’t like him this much!” Howard said, and made sure the chair was quite firm. Then he designed several more spaceships to take his mind off the Goon.

When he came down in the morning, he found the problem solved.

The Goon was doubled into the sofa in the front room, wrapped in the blankets that had been over the drums. The Goon had really settled in. He had moved the sofa round so that he could watch breakfast television and was basking there with a big grin on his face and a mug of tea in his hand as he watched. As Howard came in, however, the picture fizzed and vanished. Howard just caught the words ARCHER IS WATCHING YOU before the Goon’s long arm shot out and turned the television off.

“Keeps doing that,” the Goon said in an injured way.

“Perhaps Archer doesn’t trust you,” Howard said.

“Doing my best,” the Goon protested. “Staying here till your dad does the words.”

“You’re going the wrong way about it,” Howard explained. “I know Dad. You’ve got his back up by hanging around trying to bully him like this. The way to do it is to pretend to be very nice and say it doesn’t matter. Then Dad would get a bad conscience and do the words like a shot.”

“Got to do it my way,” the Goon said.

“Then don’t blame me if you’re still here next Christmas,” said Howard. The Goon grinned at that, as if he thought it was a good idea, annoying Howard considerably.

On the way to school Howard noticed that someone had chalked the name ARCHER beside Awful’s hopscotch. It was chalked on the wall of the corner shop, too, and when Howard got to school, the name ARCHER stared at him again, done in white spray paint on the wall of the labs. There was a long, boring talk about vandals in Assembly because of it.

Howard was annoyed for a while because it was Dad’s business, not his. But he forgot about it in English because he was busy making a careful, soothing drawing of his articulated spaceship.

Fifi was waiting for him when he came out of school, waving and looking anxious. In a way, it was as bad as the Goon. Howard’s friends all made chortling noises, pretending they thought Fifi was his girlfriend. He went over to her as slowly as he could. But that only made Fifi run to meet him. “What’s up?” he said.

“Don’t look so glad to see me, will you?” Fifi said. “Someone might notice. Miss Maisie Potter’s up, that’s what. She didn’t come near the Poly today, and that’s not like her. I want you to come round to her house with me.”

“Do you think she’s ill?” said Howard.

“I think she’s avoiding me,” said Fifi. “She saw the Goon that night, remember. I think it’s fishy.”

She clung to Howard’s arm, causing a further set of chortles from Howard’s friends. “Be ever so nice and come with me, Howard. I don’t like to face her with stealing on my own.”

“Oh, all right,” Howard said hastily. They walked down the street together, pursued by chortles.

As soon as they were out of hearing, Fifi said, “The Goon’s still there, you know. Sitting. Grinning. Your dad’s just sitting, too – sitting it out. He hasn’t even tried to write his new book. I keep thinking of that knife.”

Howard sighed. He had hoped the Goon would have got tired of waiting by now.

Fifi wrapped her scarf around her neck and flung the end bravely over her shoulder. “Frankly, Howard, I’m wondering if I should go to the police. Your dad won’t. But someone should.”

“It may not do any good,” said Howard. “Dillian runs law and order.”

“Dillian?” said Fifi. “Who’s Dillian?”

“Archer’s brother,” said Howard. “Mr Mountjoy said there were seven of them, and they run—”

He was interrupted by well-known piercing shouts and pounding feet. Awful was racing after them, having seen them crossing the end of the street where her school was. “Where are you two going and not taking me?” she demanded when she caught up. “You’re supposed to look after me.”

Fifi sighed rather. “We’re going to Miss Potter’s to get the words back. It’s a long way.”

“I’m coming, too,” Awful announced, as they had known she would.

“Then be good,” said Howard.

“I’ll be how I want,” Awful retorted. But she was afraid of making them angry enough to send her home, so she skipped along beside them almost quietly and did nothing worse than make a rude sign at two little girls across the street. “Our school was written over last night,” she said. “It says ARCHER on all the walls.”

“So does mine,” said Howard.

“Let’s go and see Archer,” Awful suggested. “You could set me on him.”

“Oh, no!” said Fifi. “He must be worse than the Goon.”

This sobered Awful somewhat. She skipped along without talking, while they went past the Poly and through the shopping centre and on up Shotwick Hill. “Where are we going?” she complained at the top of Shotwick Hill.

“I warned you,” Fifi said. “She lives up Pleasant Hill way. Woodland Terrace.”

“It’s posh up there,” Awful objected. “And a long way. And,” she added, “I wish I hadn’t come now.”

The way was all uphill. Long before they got to Woodland Terrace, Awful was shuffling and dragging and moaning that she was tired. She said she hated the houses here. Even the ordinary houses were beautifully painted and very neat. Most of the houses were more like red-brick castles than ordinary houses, and they got bigger and redder and more castle-like, with bigger gardens and more trees, the higher they went into Pleasant Hill. It was quite a surprise to find Woodland Terrace was a row of small houses. Awful perked up when she found Miss Potter’s house actually had gnomes in its little front garden.

“She would have gnomes!” Fifi said contemptuously as she rang the bell at the little stained-glass front door.

Miss Potter, when she opened the door, had a towel around her head and her glasses hanging from her neck on a chain. She hurriedly put the glasses on in order to stare. For an instant she looked really dismayed. “Oh,” she said, “what a surprise!” and forced a smile to her ribby face.

“That typescript I gave you to drop into the Town Hall…” Fifi began.

“What about it?” Miss Potter said, much too quickly.

“My father needs it urgently,” said Howard.

Miss Potter looked at him and then backed away, in a way that made Howard feel like the Goon. “Oh, but I—” she said, and took hold of the front door to shut it in their faces. And that would have been that, but for Awful. Awful wanted to see what the house was like inside, and she was never shy. She slipped in under Miss Potter’s skinny elbow and walked into the hall. In order not to shut Awful into the house, Miss Potter had to leave the door open. She stood holding it and looking meaningly from Awful to Howard and Fifi. When none of them moved, she said, with cross politeness, “Won’t you all come in?”

They went into the small dark house. It had a sad, damp smell and a lot of clocks ticking. Awful made a face because her curiosity was already satisfied. Miss Potter ran ahead of them into a spotless little living room and cleared two small books and a neat note pad from a shiny table. “You’ll have to excuse everything being so untidy,” she said. “I’ve been working hard all day, and I wasn’t expecting visitors. I’m so nervous about that paper Mr Sykes set me, Fifi! I can’t think of anything else!”

“Think about that typescript,” said Fifi. “Have you still got it?”

“How about some tea and biscuits?” Miss Potter said brightly.

“Yes, please,” said Awful.

But Howard and Fifi both said, “No, thanks,” at the same time, and Fifi added, “Typescript, Maisie.” Awful glowered.

Miss Potter put a hand to the towel around her head distractedly. “Oh, yes. Now let me think…”

Awful was annoyed at not being allowed tea and biscuits. She said loudly and gloomily, “She’s putting you off. She’s stolen it.”

“I have not!” Miss Potter exclaimed indignantly. “I’ve only – that is— Well, if you must know, I lent it to someone.”

“Whatever for?” said Fifi. “When you knew Mr Sykes—”

“I can get it back,” Miss Potter protested. “My friend only lives just up the road. She only wanted a peep at it.” And with a distinct look of relief she added, “I’ll – I’ll get it back and give it to you tomorrow without fail, Fifi.”

It seemed to Howard that Miss Potter was getting more and more shifty. Fifi evidently thought so too, because she said sternly, “No, that won’t do, Maisie. Tell us where your friend lives and we’ll go get it now.”

“Oh, I can’t do that!” Miss Potter cried out. “She doesn’t like strangers. She won’t know who you are. She – she doesn’t care for children. I’ll go and see her myself this evening, I promise!”

Fifi looked frustrated. Howard found he did not believe a word about this friend of Miss Potter’s. He thought of the Goon and the Goon’s techniques. He said, “We’re staying here until you give us that typescript. My father needs it. It’s his property.”

This produced a new flurry of excuses from Miss Potter. “But I can’t bother my friend in the middle of the afternoon like this! And just look at these awful old clothes I’m in!”

“We’ll wait while you change,” said Fifi.

“Besides,” added Miss Potter, becoming truly inspired, “my hair’s wet.”

“Wear a hat,” said Awful. “Doesn’t she tell a lot of lies?”

At this, Miss Potter made a noise of exasperation. “Very well,” she said, tossing her towelled head angrily. “We’ll all go to see my friend. But I insist on going upstairs to change first.” She turned and marched out of the neat living room.

Howard hastily nudged Awful and gave her the look which meant she could be as awful as she liked. It did not seem to him that Awful needed much encouraging just then. Nor did she. She grinned fiendishly and scampered after Miss Potter. He heard her following Miss Potter upstairs, saying, “I want to see your bedroom. I like seeing bedrooms.”

“Oh, Howard,” Fifi whispered. “She’ll never forgive me!”

Howard comforted his conscience by telling it that Miss Potter probably deserved it for stealing the words and telling lies about friends. “Quick,” he whispered back. “I bet the words are here somewhere.”

Quietly and hastily he and Fifi tiptoed about, searching the neat little room. They opened drawers and cupboards, looked in the empty wastepaper basket, and ended lifting up clocks and shaking out empty vases. There was nothing. Miss Potter did not seem to keep even old letters.

They tiptoed to the only other room, which proved to be Miss Potter’s kitchen, and searched cupboards there, too. Fifi looked in the oven and the fridge, while Howard sorted through the two plastic bags and the cabbage stalk, which was all that was in Miss Potter’s waste bin. Again nothing. All the while, they could hear footsteps moving about upstairs and Awful’s voice loudly saying things like, “Why do you have so many kinds of make-up? They don’t make you any prettier.” Or, “Why do you keep your nightie in this silly teddy bear?” It made Fifi giggle.

Howard thought Miss Potter must have the words upstairs, probably in the teddy with her nightdress, and he was just hoping that Awful would have the sense to look when he heard Awful saying, in a very loud, warning way, “You did change quickly! Don’t you like little girls watching you?” Fifi was giggling helplessly. Howard took her arm and towed her back to the living room just in time.

Miss Potter came bouncing tightly down the stairs in a neat pleated skirt, with a neat scarf over her head, and her lips were tightly pressed together. She looked furious. “Fifi, you should teach that child some manners!” she said. “Do you think you could wait outside while I find my keys?”

Awful stuck her head over the banisters, grinning wider than the Goon. She whispered, in a great loud gust, “Miss Potter wants to telephone. She’s got a telephone upstairs, too.”

Miss Potter shot Awful a venomous look and followed that up with an artificial-looking jump. “Oh, silly me! I have my keys here all the time! Shall we go?”

They went out of the house. While Miss Potter was locking it with much fussy jangling of keys, Howard tried to decide whether there really was a friend or Miss Potter had just decided on this way to get rid of them. Either way there was nothing they could do but follow Miss Potter uphill and into Pleasant Hill Road itself.

“My friend is such an admirer of your father’s books,” Miss Potter explained to Howard as they climbed. “She’s been asking me for months now if I couldn’t get her just a peep at some of his newest writing. She says she simply must read every word he’s ever written. She says it’s his style that’s so marvellous, but I think the important thing is that he’s so sympathetic to the woman’s point of view. Don’t you agree?”

“I don’t know,” Howard panted. Miss Potter set quite a fast pace. “I’ve never read any of Dad’s books.”

“He says we mustn’t till we’re old enough,” Awful explained.

Miss Potter struck back smartly at this. “You poor child! Can’t you read yet? How sad!”

“You do make catty remarks,” Awful said. “Is it because you’re an old maid?”

Miss Potter pressed her lips together and walked on up the hill in seething silence. Howard gave Awful the look that was meant to call her off, but he was not sure it worked. They came in silence to the very top of the hill, to the driveway of the largest and reddest house yet. The brick gatepost said 28. Number 28 was like several castles melted together, with brick battlements and towers sprouting off its many corners. The way into it seemed to be through a big glass porch in front. Miss Potter went through the porch door and then undid the mighty studded front door beyond enough to put her head around it.

“Cooee!” she called. “Anyone at home? Dillian, dear, it’s me!”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.