For the next fortnight, evil stalks unchecked through the streets of Emmerdale: nefariously picking up a copy of the Hotten Courier of a morning from David's shop; buying Americanos from the cafe; having deeply personal arguments with its future sister-in-law in a variety of embarrassingly public places.
Approaching Aaron's table in The Woolpack when he's on his lunch break, carrying two pints and wearing a broad, sunny grin.
Robert sits down in the empty chair opposite Aaron without being invited to do so, and then holds one of the glasses out towards him. "For you," he says.
Aaron regards it with suspicion. "It's not poisoned or anything, is it?" he asks. "Only I've got to get back to the garage in ten minutes, and—"
"No, it's not poisoned," Robert snaps. He sounds honestly offended, and his grin fades a little around the edges.
"Right." Aaron takes the glass but sets it down on the table without taking a drink from it. Poisoned or not, he knows his limits. One pint in the middle of the work day is pushing at the top end of them and he's already had that. "What is it in aid of, then?"
Robert's smile kicks up a couple of lumens in intensity again. "We're celebrating."
"We are? Why?"
"Because," Robert says, dragging the word out whilst he fishes around in his coat pocket, only voicing the final sibilant when he extracts his wallet, "the Guild got their arses in gear at last; dotted all the i's, crossed all the t's." He draws forth a matte black card, and presents it to Aaron with an unnecessarily dramatic flourish of his wrist. "We're completely official now."
"Great," Aaron says, staring down at the card and failing to muster up even a single iota of enthusiasm.
It's the same size and weight as a credit card, and feels to be made of the same sort of material. The front is embossed with the Guild logo – a red dragon hopping across the top of a globe – and the back bears a long string of digits that Aaron presumes is Robert's Guild membership number, his name, and a telephone number with a Leeds area code.
"The regional Guild headquarters," Robert explains. "In case you have any complaints about the service."
"Is that everything?" Aaron asks, getting out his own wallet and tucking the card inside, hidden behind his driving license. "I need—"
"Not so fast." Robert grabs at the sleeve of Aaron's hoodie as he starts getting to his feet, pulling him back down into his seat again. "We need to talk about our upcoming... meeting."
"Meeting?"
"For arching," Robert says in a stagey whisper that carries just as well as his normal tone. "I was thinking tomorrow at Home Farm. Is two okay with you?"
"Oh, right." Aaron tries the idea on for size and discovers he quite likes the fit of it. He had presumed that he'd have to be on his guard at all times against spontaneous outbursts of harassment, but it sounds as though this arching rubbish might turn out to be far more civilised and less disruptive than he'd been imagining. "I didn't realise we'd be making appointments."
"Normally, we wouldn't, and it's not really proper protocol..." Robert leans closer, his voice dropping into a true whisper. "I was wondering if you could do me a favour, though. Just this once. Lawrence doesn't believe I really have what it takes to be a supervillain, and I want to prove him wrong. He'll be there tomorrow, and if I put on a good show of arching you first time out, hopefully that'll be enough to finally impress him."
That idea, on the other hand, is distinctly uncomfortable, as Aaron doesn't relish the prospect of having an audience for whatever acts of bondage and light intimidation Robert might have planned. "And why should I do you any favours?" he asks. "I thought we were archenemies now? Wasn't that the point of all this?"
"Well, technically, yes, but... Look, we're going to have to do this sooner or later, anyway, and I can tell you're not exactly keen on this whole thing. If you do this for me now, I promise I won't arch you again for the rest of the year. And I'll owe you one, too."
Being able to forget about arching and super-anything-ing for a month or so is reason enough and more for Aaron. "Fine," he huffs out. "But you'd better make it quick, and no funny business."
"Funny business," Robert echoes, quirking one eyebrow questioningly.
"Ray guns, killer robots..." Aaron flounders slightly, lacking further inspiration. He's never been interested enough in the super- community to keep up with their preferred methods of doing damage to one another. "Supervillain shit."
Robert smirks at the description. "Like I said before, I don't use weapons. It's just going to be you and me."
"With Lawrence watching on."
"With Lawrence watching on," Robert concedes. "And it'll be over and done with before you know it, trust me."
Which sounds somewhat ominous, but Aaron doesn't have time to worry about that. A quick glance at his phone confirms he's already running late. "Okay," he says. "You win. Home Farm, two o'clock."
This time, when Aaron goes to stand up, Robert doesn't try and stop him. He does look a little disappointed, though.
"Aren't you going to have your beer?" he asks.
"Wasn't planning on," Aaron says. "I told you I needed to get back to work."
"Fine," Robert says, "but just so you're aware what you're passing up, that's probably the last pint I'm ever going to buy you. We won't be able to... fraternise from now on."
"That's no great loss, is it? We didn't fraternise before, either."
"True, but we're bound by Guild rules here on in. No talking to each other outside the arching."
For no earthly reason that Aaron can fathom, Robert both looks and sounds slightly saddened to be imparting this information, as though he expects it to induce something in the way of weeping, wailing, and rending of garments at the injustice of it all.
"Fair enough." Aaron shrugs. "I suppose this means I won't be coming around to yours for tea, after all."
"Oh, no, that invitation still stands," Robert says. "And Chrissie'll probably be sending you another for our New Year's party, too. Group get-togethers are Guild-sanctioned, it's just one on ones that are off the table."
It's Aaron's turn to be disappointed. "Fantastic," he says dully. "Right, I guess I'll be seeing you tomorrow, then."
Robert's wide, beaming smile returns, full force. "Can't wait," he says.
-
-
There's a small crowd gathered outside Home Farm when Aaron drives up to it at two o'clock on the dot the next day. Not only Robert and the threatened Lawrence, but Chrissie and Lachlan, too, and flanking the four of them, Chris and another of Lawrence's minions: a woman of similarly gargantuan proportions who looks as though she could be Chris' twin.
It's a far bigger audience than Aaron had been lead to believe would be in attendance and had consequently prepared himself to face. He eases his foot off his car's accelerator, shifts his hands on the steering wheel, and seriously considers turning around and heading straight back home again.
The knowledge that he'd be likely be throwing away his League-issued Get Out of Jail Free card if he did so is the only thing that keeps him trundling along the final few feet of drive.
He parks up, takes a moment to breathe deeply and evenly until his heart stops feeling like it's about to hammer a hole through his ribcage, and then, very reluctantly, steps out of the car.
Robert immediately ambles over to him, his steps slow and rolling, hands thrust deep in his pockets, looking every inch as though he's just setting out on a pleasant stroll.
"Glad you could make it," he calls out. Then, more quietly, adds, "There's no need to look so worried. This is going to hurt me much more than it's going to hurt you."
"What is?"
Robert glances back over his shoulder at the group gathered in front of the house. They're far enough away that Aaron can see nothing but the faintest smudged brushstroke suggestions of their expressions, but he thinks they're all smiling. Chris gives him a thumbs up.
"The show we're going to put on for them," Robert says. "And it is going to be a show. Only pretend. I want it to look as believable as possible, though, so..." He studies Aaron with speculatively narrowed eyes. "Maybe you could threaten me a little to start with? 'You'll never get away with this'? Something like that."
"No chance," Aaron says, because amateur dramatics had never been part of their agreement. He's no good at them, and he knows he'd feel like a complete wanker saying such things, besides.
"We'll stick to the physical stuff, then." Robert straightens up out of his slight slouch, squares his shoulders, and says, "Punch me."
He appears serious, determined, but Aaron shakes his head. "I'm not going to punch you for no reason."
"But you do have a reason, Aaron," Robert says. "Because, if you don't, you can forget that promise, and I'll arch you every single day for the rest of the year, instead. You don't have to do it hard. I can just make it look like you did."
The smirk his mouth settles into is practically begging to be knocked from his face, and Aaron's right hand forms a fist seemingly of its own volition.
Although Aaron's involvement with the public work of the League had begun and ended with foiling a few muggings, he'd still attended one of the classes they'd put on for a couple of years afterwards. It had been run by a tiny old man with a face like a desiccated walnut, and purported to teach what the League termed 'street fighting', which involved some improvised weaponry and dirty tactics, but a great deal more in the way of theatricality; something he'd never really understood the point of before he heard Robert's explanation of how the Guild operated the other day.
He knows how to pull his punches, and, it seems, Robert knows how to take them.
He rolls his head with the blow, and although Aaron's knuckles brush only glancingly against his jaw, Robert still clutches at it like it's been shattered, and then staggers back a few steps, onto the neatly-trimmed lawn behind him.
He gives Aaron a sharp grin. Says, "Punch me again."
Aaron obliges, and again Robert acts as though he's been struck with real weight behind it. Clutches, staggers, then holds out a quelling hand, palm flattening out against Aaron's chest when he draws near.
He looks across to the house again, swears quietly. "Angle's all wrong," he says. "Don't suppose you can see how many minions are out front, can you?"
Aaron tilts his head back. "Two. Chris and Lady-Chris." A flicker of movement catches his eye, and he amends that to: "Three. Another one's just joined them."
"And what are they doing?"
"Waving, I think."
Robert releases a long, wavering sigh. "Time to shake things up a bit, then," he says, curling the fingers splayed across Aaron's chest, taking hold of a handful of fabric at the front of his shirt.
He tugs Aaron forwards with a sudden jerk of his arm, and then just as quickly pushes him back, catching Aaron off-balance. He stumbles, reflexively catching hold of Robert's shoulders to steady himself, but a fraction too slow to keep himself from falling, and he topples back, pulling Robert after him.
He hits the ground heavily enough to knock the air out of his lungs, and Robert's breath is stuttering too, albeit for entirely different reasons. The bastard's laughing, and as soon as bright blooms of concussed colour have stopped blossoming across the front of Aaron's eyes, he shoves him hard.
Aaron tries to scramble to his feet, but Robert grabs at his trouser leg and hauls him back down.
There then follows one of the strangest fights Aaron has ever been involved in. Robert doesn't even try to hit him, just carries on shoving, grappling and pulling; his only objective, apparently, to keep Aaron from standing again.
And because he doesn't attempt to land a single punch, Aaron doesn't either. He has no idea why, as the only result is that the whole stupid farce is dragged out for far, far longer that it needs to be, until they're both panting, dripping with sweat, and Robert's once pristine white shirt has turned an almost uniform mud brown.
Then something trills from the depths of Robert's jacket pocket. It sounds like a text alert, and Robert holds up one finger, a clear signal that he wants Aaron to stop for a moment so he can fucking check on it.
Aaron, who is crouched above him clasping a lump of turf that he'd been quite prepared and willing to force-feed Robert in the next moment, rocks back on his haunches, scowls down at him, and says, "Can't that wait? We're sort of in the middle of something here, aren't we?"
"Afraid not," Robert says, smirking once more. "Sorry, I didn't realise you were enjoying yourself so much."
"I'm not," Aaron says, and he isn't. He'd just allowed himself to get carried away with the momentum of whatever the fuck it was they were doing. He hurriedly opens up his hand and lets the turf-lump fall. "Carry on, then."
Robert takes something out of his pocket, but it's not his mobile. It's a small black cube, which fits neatly into the centre of his cupped palm. All of its visible sides are blank, save the topmost one, upon which a blue light is flashing.
"What the fuck's that?" Aaron asks.
"Good news," Robert says. "Well, good for me. Not so good for you." He smiles ruefully. "I'm sorry, Aaron. I promise this won't hurt."
Before Aaron can react, or even finish processing what he's just said, Robert reaches up and presses the cube to Aaron's left temple.
The blue light flares outward for an instant, and then everything goes black.