The Garden of Unearthly Delights by Robert Rankin

have to cancel it.’
    ‘No.’
Maxwell shook his head fiercely. ‘We can’t do that. There’s a hundred people
out there, we can’t let them down.’
    ‘But we
can’t do the broadcast without Mr Hilyte. This is terrible, terrible.’
    ‘Just
calm down.’ Maxwell gripped the zany by his trembling shoulders. ‘There must be
a way. The show must go on.’
    ‘I
could go on by myself,’ said Miss Tailier, in the manner of one who most
definitely could.
    Maxwell
made a doubtful face. ‘I don’t think it would do. You could go on in Mr
Hilyte’s place,’ he told the shivering zany.
    ‘I can’t
go on. I can’t even stay here for long. I must go back to Mr Hilyte, I’m his
oldest friend. We’ll have to cancel the broadcast. Unless . .
    ‘Unless
what?’
    ‘Well,’
said the zany. ‘Perhaps, but no . .
    ‘Go
on,’ Maxwell demanded.
    ‘You could go on in Mr Hilyte’s place,’ the zany blurted
out.
    ‘Me? That’s ludicrous.’
    ‘Well,
no it’s not. I could make you up to look like Mr Hilyte. Through the glass of
the screen and with the number of men concentrating on Miss Tailier…’
    Maxwell
scratched at his head. This moment of hesitation caused further distress to the
zany.
    ‘You’re
right,’ he all but wept. ‘It would never work. We’ll have to cancel.’
    ‘No we
won’t.’ Maxwell’s voice was very firm indeed. ‘All right, I’ll do it. Make me
up.’
    ‘What a
hero,’ said Miss Jenny Tailier, squeezing Maxwell’s hand.
    ‘I’ll
have to shave your head,’ said the zany.
    ‘Forget
it,’ said Maxwell.
    The
zany chewed upon his finger nails. ‘Oh calamity,’ he said.
    ‘All
right, all right,’ cried Maxwell. ‘Shave my head, apply the make-up. By the
Goddess, the things I do to make this world a better place.’

 
     
     
     
     
    6
     
    To the zany’s credit, he
was skilful in the art of make-up.
    Not
quite so skilled in the barbering department, however: his trembling hand
almost cost Maxwell an ear.
    Maxwell
examined himself in the zany’s hand mirror and the artist returned his make-up
sticks to the pouch he wore on his belt. A horrible sight met Maxwell’s eyes,
but a fair enough facsimile of Dayglo Hilyte.
    Maxwell
shook his now bald head. ‘So,’ said he. ‘The all-important matter. The news
script. I haven’t even seen it yet.’
    ‘It’s
here,’ the zany thrust a wad of papers into Maxwell’s hand. ‘Mr Hilyte has been
working on it all week.’
    ‘What
about the one for Miss Tailier?’
    ‘I’ve
learned mine off by heart,’ said the beautiful young woman, fluttering her
gorgeous eyelashes.
    ‘Well
done,’ said Maxwell.
    ‘Now
quickly,’ said the zany. ‘Into the TV. I will take the collection and make the
introductions. Oh dear, oh dear.’
    ‘Don’t
worry,’ said Maxwell. ‘We can handle it.’ The zany opened the rear doors of the
wonderful wide-screen two-person TV and assisted Maxwell and Miss Tailier
inside.
    ‘Everything
OK?’ he asked.
    ‘Just fine,’ said Maxwell, making himself comfortable. The TV set was roomy enough. But
now, with the doors firmly closed, rather intimate. Knees were touching and
shoulders too. Maxwell could smell the young woman’s hair. It smelled quite
wonderful.
    A lump
came to Maxwell’s throat. Maxwell prayed this lump would be the only one that
came.
    From
beyond the curtain came the murmur of the crowd. Gay voices, much laughter.
Maxwell heard the zany as he moved amongst the merry throng, joking, ‘warming
up’, passing the contributions sack. Silver collection only, this time.
    Maxwell
suddenly felt a growing sense of terror. Stage fright! He glanced at Miss
Tailier, but she was cool, aloof, a real professional. Maxwell steadied his
nerves. If she was up to it, so was he. The dawn of a new age of enlightenment
was about to begin, and he, Max Carrion, Imagineer, was to be the rising sun of
this new dawn.
    Oh yes!
    ‘My
lords, ladies, grandees and duchesses, Mayor and lady Mayoress, town’s folk