by Graham Johns
A moment passed where nobody moved. Sue now had tears running down her cheeks and was turning red in the face. Roger wasn’t sure what to do and was on the verge of panic. Honesty was calmness personified.
“What will it be?”
“Fettler? Good customer. Not too dirty. Likes it front and back. What else can I say?” she asked.
“Did he give you anything? A map maybe?”
“A map? What’re you talking about?”
Honesty squeezed a little harder and reminded her of the proximity of his blade.
“W-w-w-wait! Yes, he gave me something to keep safe but I didn’t look at it! I swear!”
“Over there!” she pointed to the fireplace. “He stashed it well up the chimney!”
Honesty looked. Roger looked. What happened next was never officially recorded in the history of Nether-Staining because history is written by the victorious, and Roger the Pure panicked. Honesty Boycott moved towards the chimney and Roger grasped the closest thing he could lay his hands on that had some weight to it. The brass candlestick crashed down on the back of Honesty Boycott’s head and opened up his skull. Honesty Boycott had breathed his last because Sue picked up his blade, which had fallen to the stone floor, and thrust it into the centre of his back for good measure. She spat upon his body.
“Serves him right, the evil bastard!” she spat again.
Both breathed hard and were sweating from the excitement.
“Thank God!” Sue shouted.
“Agreed,” Roger said with a nod, “he moves in mysterious ways.”
“Thank God for that too!”
“Please never speak or think of the package ever again,” Roger said, “and in return I promise to ensure your account with the Lord will always be paid up.”
Sue agreed by way of nodding, “Let’s get rid of the body.”
“If we can wrap him in something before he goes cold, I’ll get him out of here while you distract the landlord.”
And so it was that Roger the Pure could live a long life to the ripe old age of one hundred and two, partly by continuing his regular bathing regime in the sheep dip and also always carrying Honesty’s dagger, which he had removed before he burned the body on a suitable pyre, casting any incriminating remains into the River Neth in the dead of a moonless night. Sue kept her word and just maybe went to heaven, depending on what you choose to believe.
“I told you you’d burn in hell,” Roger stated with a curiously contented look as he cast away Honesty Boycott, “I’ll rebuild my church in Yorkshire stone and your name will be cursed forever.”
***
White Man allowed himself a laugh as he watched Hippo Man topple, “Mwahaha!”
Blue Boy shouted, “No! You bastard!” The Conductor rushed to Hippo Man’s side.
“I think you will find that he is the bastard, his birth certificate proves it!”
“So what? You’re a murderous git and you’ll pay for this!” Blue Boy was seething.
“Be careful what you say or you will be next,” White Man approached Blue Boy with the gun pointed right at him, “do you have any last words?”
“Before you do tha…”
The gun went off again and Blue Boy stood facing him, instinctively grabbing his stomach, “How could you?”
White Man fired again, and again, and again, and again. Blue Boy remained standing. At this point Hippo Man assailed White Man.
“Hippo Man! You’re alive!” Blue Boy shouted with joy. “I thought you’d perished!”
“Just acting,” he replied as he landed a punch onto White Man to knock him out cold, “must’ve been blanks.”
Bob took a breath of relief.
Maurice’s time had come, “Everyone! Thith man hath no place in Yorkthhire, be rid of him onthe and for all!”
The crowd of villagers moved towards Hippo Man with evil intent. Hippo Man stood his ground and raised his arms, “Wait! I’ve been to Lancashire to attempt to set my own record straight and rectify this misunderstanding. I can tell you this…my name is indeed Gordon Lancaster Shepherd but that birth certificate which had no date of birth was actually my father’s. I have my own and his own right here.” He raised both documents into the air. “He was a Lancashire bastard for sure, and I am a descendant of a Lancashire bastard, born right here in Nether-Staining in my own farmhouse. I still sleep in the same bed I was born in!”
The villagers paused. Smutterance took the document and reported, “It says it right here! He’s right! Now stop this madness!”
Maurice had only one card left to play, “What about your preciouth river? Your village hath been in Lancathhire all along! I heard you thay it! It’th time to thet the record thtraight onthe and for all!”
***
Robin Hood climbed out of the rear window of the mangled car. “I couldn’t do it,” he said to himself and he did an internal system diagnostic while he paused on the ground, “I tried to miss him. My programming wouldn’t let me kill him but I killed someone anyway.”
It was then that he noticed that something had toppled from the wall of the pub, probably from the chimney onto the ground next to him, disturbed by the crash. It was a really dark leather pouch which clearly had a lot of age because it appeared to be on the verge of disintegration. He carefully opened it up and curiously peeled apart a fragile piece of paper.
Robin Hood realised immediately the significance of this find, being no mere human, and stood.
“Wait! Wait!”
Everyone looked at him.
“Nether-Staining has always been in Yorkshire! It’s all just a ruse! The River was moved but this map clearly shows that it wasn’t the border of old to begin with at all! It had been moved even before the last time because it used to be to the south west where the bypass road is now! There’s a letter in here, written by someone called ‘Roger the Pure’ that explains it all. It seems he knew from church records about two movements of the River Neth as the village was being established, one that pre-dated the arrival of many to the area. The river was moved to the north east once because somebody wanted the land for himself, and then again to build the church. Nether-Staining was always in Yorkshire from the start but nobody knew about it except him. He says he had to keep his secret for fear of his life and for leverage. He confesses to the killing of one Honesty Boycott and explains that the hiding of this map was an act in trying to preserve his own life!”
Maurice wasn’t sure what to do next. He simply looked defeated. “Why can’t we all live together in peathe?” he asked lamely.
Smutterance took the package from Robin Hood for safekeeping, cursing that he didn’t have some of the white velvety gloves used by historical professionals. He’d have to get some of those, they’d have a nice, soft touch on the skin he reckoned.
The lull in proceedings presented an opportunity as White Man came round. Rather than slinking off, he shook his head and, getting to his feet, the first thing he did was to wrap his arms around Blue Boy’s neck and begin to twist.
“Thtop!” Maurice shouted.
White Man did indeed stop. But he didn’t stop because of anything any of the heroes managed to do as they were all transfixed in watching Blue Boy succumb. White Man suddenly acquired extra hair, which was stiffly styled, and a well-oiled beard. His arms relaxed.
“Enough!” shouted White Man. He then jerked and said “No! Mwahaha!” and grabbed at Blue Boy again.
“Help us! Form up!” White Man involuntarily shouted to Maurice.
Maurice’s moustache leapt into action and arrived on the brow of White Man in the blink of an eye. The three styles were too much for one man to handle. They all worked their controlling magic together with extreme results.
White Man let out a blood-curdling scream and his head exploded with a sound not unlike a watermelon splatting on a solid floor. The three styles then crept away to find water for a quick clean, thankfully provided by the leaking radiator of the Jaguar.
“Nothing good ever cam
e of White Man trying to rule another nation,” Hippo Man said, resting his hand on Blue Boy’s shoulder, and another hand round The Conductor’s waist.
“Celebratory Priest’s Hole, anyone?” Bob asked the crowd, many of whom were looking around in a rather confused state.
“Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach's sake and thine often infirmities,” Reverend Burns said, widely assumed to be an “OK” for the whole village to get thoroughly plastered.
At that very moment, the music of ‘Greensleeves’ piped up and an ice cream van drove into the village.
“Good man,” said Blue Boy, “I told him to come down just as the excitement finished. And what better choice can man have than beer or ice cream, or maybe even both?”
EPILOGUE TWO
NOT MUCH GOOD COMES OF WHITE MAN,
UNTIL HE HATH GONE AND LEFT,
BUILD UP FROM SCRATCH, MY YORKSHIRE SON,
AND HAVE PRIDE IN YOUR BREAST!
In the weeks that followed, something most unexpected occurred in Nether-Staining, namely that by recent standards, things were rather normal…at least on the surface.
But what really happened was that people began to have their hair grow back. Dickens and Brough were given a choice of whether to stay or not, which they didn’t. The various superhero outfits were thoroughly laundered and stashed away for possible future use, with the exception of Smutterance, as Smutty Mathew liked to parade around in his in front of every mirror in his house, he also liked to sniff the gusset after he’d got a good sweat on in his gym.
The bodies of Coward King and White Man were given a decent Christian burial at the insistence of Reverend Burns and the local police informed of their gross misdeeds, although the presence of aliens and Lycra-clad heroes was omitted from their story.
The Dog & Duck was made ready for repair and a small part of the Nether-Staining wall was commissioned for the purpose. The wall around Nether-Staining remained, however, as nobody could be bothered carting all of that stone back to other places. This would be an open village from now on, although the toll was left in place just in case anyone was daft enough to pay it, which being an honest land, they did. Maurice Bickerdyke, minus his moustache, returned to parliament and dropped his case of stronger county ties, though he was a little lost as to what he’d been doing for many months now, and he had a vague feeling he’d had a moustache until recently. No Members of Parliament received any money, nor could they speak of the scheme they’d been involved in for fear of exposure.
Ice cream sales were very high and Geoffrey had quite happily stayed on and had been declared an honorary Yorkshireman. Much Priest’s Hole was consumed, though Bob declared an amnesty on payment for a week due to having a huge amount of stock of spirits and lots of money sat in the coffers that he figured might as well have a good use. He also proposed marriage to Beryl who accepted, and wondered why he hadn’t asked sooner. The gun was stashed safely back behind the bar, and Broken, now down from the apple tree, was entrusted to guard it.
But what of the rogue hairstyles, I hear you ask? A discussion was occurring on a quiet afternoon in the Dog & Duck. The village committee of old were present and debating items of importance.
Bob was sporting both the beard and ice cream hairstyle, “We feel we can offer something to Nether-Staining under the banner of peace. We have no home, and when we travelled here through interdimensional space, it was never our intention to cause harm. We couldn’t see another way. What if we could protect Nether-Staining from future alien invasion while also hiding the fact that we are here?”
Mick nodded with empathy at the mention of being homeless.
“Yes,” said the moustache through Mick, having jumped up to his upper lip mid-nod, “give us the option to live here in peace and occasionally use one of you for ease of communication with each other and we can open up a whole new world, or indeed universe, for you all.”
The moustache dropped onto the table briefly to await a reply.
“Outside Yorkshire? I’m not convinced you offer much,” Gordon replied, folding his arms defensively.
“What if we can provide technologies which enhance your farming and lives in general, but the outside of your world cannot see it?” Bob asked. “We can provide an illusion of Nether-Staining to anyone but those in the know. Like a protective shell.”
“Don’t be too hasty to dismiss them, Gordon,” Mick counselled, “this could be fantastic, it has to be worth a trial run at least? Imagine the holidays we might have!”
Gordon looked mildly disgruntled as, in his humble opinion, holidays were to be taken in Whitby, Filey, Scarborough or Bridlington.
“Doesn’t the whole village deserve a say?” Gordon asked. Nigel rested his head on Gordon’s lap briefly and got a rub before he headed off to stare at Broken.
“I’m still Prime Minister, I believe,” said Bob, albeit with his facial friends, “I say it’s better to live in peace and wonder than not live at all in your humdrum routine.”
“Hardly unbiased though, maybe we should ask the deputy,” Mick said.
Mick headed outside to seek out Tufty McTuftykins, who was grazing in a new ceremonial enclosure that had been erected on the village green.
“Idiot,” Gordon said, “it’s a shame White Man’s gun wasn’t loaded in hindsight.”
Mick returned, “No comment.”
“I think we all need to look at the moral of what has happened recently,” Selina said, “especially you, Gordon.”
Gordon looked at his robot wife with affection and thought back over his own experiences with a melancholy look and a slightly dreamy smile.
“She’s right,” he said, “if I’ve learnt anything of late it is this, we could all use more togetherness, not less. Life’s just easier that way…so long as you don’t have some idiot wanting more power or wealth and who will stop at nothing to get it. We should celebrate differences and encourage them. With this in mind I am going to refrain from using the word ‘bastard’ in reference to Lancashire again, on payment of fifty English pence each time I break my pledge. ”
Mick spluttered from his pint, “Can I have a bucket? I think I might need to be sick. Are you actually being serious? Where is Gordon and what have you done with him?”
The moustache sneaked down from underneath Gordon’s hat and back to the table.
Gordon laughed, “Good fun, these lads, eh? If I’ve learnt anything from this experience it’s that when you’ve got something as great as Yorkshire, there’ll always be some bastard who wants it for himself.”
“Who said we’re all ‘lads’?” Bob asked, winking at Gordon, who stared at his pint in reply.
Mick and Ranjit laughed heartily. Reverend Burns shook his head and took a sip of his finest Yorkshire Spring mineral water.
“Thanks for putting blanks in the gun,” Mick said.
“Not a worry, think of it as our testing White Man. We had a feeling he would do something underhanded so when we found the blanks, we felt it sensible to use them,” Bob replied with a smile.
“I think it’s worth checking that no more aliens are likely to come and try to enslave Yorkshire?” Ernest asked, Veronica squeezed his leg with a smile.
“Yes, two slightly similar alien stories to tell the grandchildren is plenty in my opinion,” Revered Burns said calmly, “most unbiblical.”
“Put it this way, if they do, we can help, along with our many friends from the intergalactic community,” Bob replied.
“Sounds like a decent offer to me,” Mick said.
Everyone thought long and hard, which didn’t actually take long because there wasn’t really that much to think about, and human brains work surprisingly fast. The general consensus was that this sounded like a fine plan.
“OK, sharing is good, we agree,” Ernest said, “but only on a trial basis and on the premise that there are no more alien invasions, except by invitation.”
“Agreed,” Bob replied.
**
*
In what used to be Gordon Shepherd’s field but was now part of the wider Nether-Staining intergalactic farming community, Gordon and Mick sat in Gordon’s tractor sipping Yorkshire Tea from a Thermos. It was a day of majestic weather and of majestic scenery, as was often the case around here. Nigel trotted about the field and claimed various isolated gateposts, which no longer had associated walls, as his own.
They took in the glorious countryside around them and fixed upon the bypass road.
“I can’t understand why anyone would want to move a river,” Gordon said, “it makes no sense at all although you have to admire their work ethic.”
Mick nodded. “Mathew has been doing some research and has found that the culprit of the first river move was actually an ancestor of mine, Yorrick Hunt. Imagine that! A Hunt with money and a home! He acquired the land a long time ago and decided he didn’t want a river running through it as he couldn’t swim.”
“He sounds a bit stupid, inbred maybe?” Gordon asked.
“What’re you trying to say?”
Gordon took on an innocent look, “Nothing. The apple doesn’t always fall far from the tree though.”
Mick glared at him for a moment and decided to change the subject.
“Well, Gordon, it seems our names will live long in local folklore, albeit as Hippo Man and Blue Boy, after these goings-on,” Mick said sagely.
“I doubt it, Michael. Everyone was too cooked on whatever mind control drugs were on those leaflets or too plastered in the pub to notice anything we did. The only people who truly know are those hero types we were stuck with.”
“We never did come up with a group name did we?” Mick reminded him.
“Nope,” Gordon replied flatly.
“When you think about it, we’re all forming a guard of Yorkshire, so why not the ‘Y-Front’?”
“I guess that’s not been done before, so I say ‘Y-not’!”
“I’ll drink to that!”
They both laughed together and clinked their plastic cups before sipping deeply of the brew. All was well in Nether-Staining, of Yorkshire, of England, of Earth once more.