“But everything is okay, isn’t it, sir?” Mr Rumpelstiltskin asked.
“Everything’s fine,” said Jim. “And less of the ‘sir’. I can’t be having with the ‘sir’. Call me Jim.”
“Just as long as you’re happy, Jim.”
“And why shouldn’t I be happy?”
“Oh, no reason. Just talk. Things blokes say in pubs. You know the sort of thing.”
“I don’t,” said Jim, settling into his pint.
“Rumours, then,” said Mr Rumpelstiltskin. “And what with all that weird stuff happening on the Benefit Night. And the team actually winning for a change. And what I just overheard you saying to Mr Omally.”
“Take no notice,” said Jim. “Of anything. Just do your job and I’ll do mine and everything will be fine.”
“Oh yes, Jim. Certainly. But you know how people are. And about your job – there’s rumours about that. Well, let’s face it, I’ve known you and Mr Omally for years, coming in here to drink after hours. Have you ever actually had another job before this one?”
“Many,” said Jim. “Many, many, but none like this. What about you? Have you always been a barman?”
Mr Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. “I was a professional dog-walker once.”
“And what does that entail?”
“Walking dogs for people who can’t be bothered.”
“Really?” said Jim. “And was there money in that?”
“There was for a while, before the authorities found out.”
“Is professional dog-walking illegal, then?”
“Not as such, but what I did was.”
“I’m intrigued,” said Jim. “What happened?”
Mr Rumpelstiltskin did lookings to either side to assure himself that he wasn’t being overheard. “It was all Norman’s fault,” he whispered.
“Norman Hartnel? Not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnel?”
“Same fellow. I had this van, see. Picked up the dogs each day, put them into the van, drove them to the park and walked them. Then one day Norman happens by the park and asks me what I’m doing with all these dogs. So I tell him. And Norman says, ‘That’s a waste of energy.’ Which it was, because they used to drag me all over the place. Norman says, ‘Those dogs should be working for you,’ which had me a bit baffled. He came down to the park the next day and told me that he’d worked out a plan for me that would not only save me energy, but get the dogs to generate energy for me.”
“Whatever did he mean?” Pooley asked.
“I had no idea, but he explained it to me. Put the dogs inside big wheels, he said, like hamster wheels, and connect these wheels up to generate electricity.”
“That sounds like Norman,” said Jim. “And it sounds like a good idea, actually.”
“That’s what I thought. And Norman built the wheels for me, out of Meccano. There was a lot of Meccano involved. We put a can of dog food in front of each wheel and the dogs ran and ran, for most of the day. The power they generated provided the electricity for my home.”
Jim Pooley laughed. “It’s pretty brilliant,” said he.
“That’s what I thought. Then Norman had this other idea, that he said would save me money on buying the dog food and generate enough electricity to power the entire street. He said he’d go into business with me and build all the extra wheels.”
“You were going to take on more dogs?” said Jim.
“No,” said Mr Rumpelstiltskin. “Not dogs, other animals. Norman had this idea about perpetual motion. He said he had a ‘spin’ on it. It would be called Petual Motion.”
“Go on,” said Jim, already halfway through his pint.
“It wouldn’t just be dogs, you see, there’d be a whole series of wheels, starting out big, then getting smaller, then big again, positioned in a circle. We built them in a rented warehouse down by the docks. It worked like this: there were six wheels; in the first there was a dog, and in the one in front of the dog there was a cat – so the dog chased after the cat, see. And the cat ran away from the dog, so both wheels turned.”
“Go on,” said Jim once again.
“In the wheel in front of the cat there was a wheel with a mouse in it. And in the wheel in front of that, an elephant.”
“An elephant?” said Jim. “Where did you get an elephant from?”
“We, er, borrowed one from the zoo – we couldn’t think of anything else that would run away from a mouse.”
“I understand,” said Jim. “Go on some more.”
“We got a lion in front of the elephant, to run away from that, and a buffalo in front of the lion, to run away from that, and then we were back to the dog in the circle, you see, in front of the stampeding buffalo in the wheel behind it. All in a circle, they all ran and ran. Petual motion. Powered the entire street.”
“And then the police arrived,” said Jim.
“Exactly,” said Mr Rumpelstiltskin. “There was a right fuss. Norman and I were lucky to stay out of prison.”
“This is the first time I’ve ever heard this story,” said Jim, “and I certainly never read about the case in the newspapers.”
“It was a very long time ago. We were teenagers then. And I bet you never read the papers when you were a teenager.”
“Only Sporting Life,” said Jim. “But you do have to hand it to that Norman. He certainly does come up with some inventive ideas.”
“Do you really think he’s going to make millions out of those patents he claims to have?”
Pooley shrugged. “It all seems a bit doubtful, doesn’t it? I mean, can you really imagine Norman doing something that would gain him a place in history?” And Pooley laughed.
And Mr Rumpelstiltskin laughed.
And Winston the ill-washed youth laughed also, although in Norman’s shop.
“These are brilliant gobstoppers,” he said.
“Have more,” said Norman. “Put some in your pocket for later.”
“Thanks,” said Winston, digging into the jar and filling his pockets.
“Tell me about you and Mr Wells,” said Norman. “I mean, this is incredible, you both appearing here, now, in my kitchenette. And thank you for nudging his elbow and saving my life.”
“I could see you ain’t the King of Darkness, gov’nor. Not with them patched elbows.”
“But what is all this business about the King of Darkness?”
“Mr Wells’ sacred mission. It happened by accident. He just wanted to try out his machine, see if it really worked. He was to present it before Queen Victoria the next day. Perhaps he will go back to the same time that we left, after he’s finished his mission.”
“But this King of Darkness?” Norman persisted.
“Well, it happened like this. Like you heard, I snuck aboard his Time Machine when it was taking off. Yeah, I was in his house on the nick, I admit it. We landed the first time about five years in the future from now.” Winston took his shabby self over to Norman’s front window and peered out through the grimy pane. “It’s all very different then than it is now, Gawd flatten me ol’ fella if it ain’t. There’s technology, see, like you ain’t got now, at this time, but like we had back in the Victorian days. Wireless transmission of energy, it was, electricity without wires.”
“Ah,” said Norman. “That.”
“Flying hansom cabs,” Winston continued, “and a space programme. But none of that survived – it’s as if it all vanished. But it will come back. It will be everywhere in a few years from now. And the one who brings it back, that’s the King of Darkness – the Devil in the shape of a man. He wants to rule the world, you see, and hasten the Apocalypse. And Mr Wells has this bee in his bonnet that somehow it’s all his fault and he has to stop it.”
“I really don’t think I understand any of this,” said Norman. “Why exactly did you and Mr Wells appear in my kitchenette, right now?”
“Because you were running the computer program, the King of Darkness’s computer program, with all the magic in it an
d all the nicked plans. Mr Wells did all these mathematical calculations – he worked it out.”
“Nicked plans?” said Norman in as normal a tone as he could muster up. “What is this about nicked plans?”
“All the technical gubbins – the wireless transmission of energy, all that stuff. The stuff that was somehow vanished out of history so that the King of Darkness couldn’t get his evil hands on the plans and do all the awful stuff that he would do with them if he got hold of them, if you know what I mean.”
“He sounds a very bad sort, this King of Darkness fellow,” said Norman.
“He is.” Winston stuffed another gobstopper into his mouth. “Mr Wells is determined to stop him, so he zeroed in on the computer program. The computer is destroyed now, so that should be that for now, in this time.”
“Right,” said Norman. “That’s that, then.”
“So if we can fix up the Time Machine, we’ll go home in it.”
“I’ll help you,” said Norman. “I’m sure together we can fix it.”
“You’re a good bloke, Norman, I can see that.”
“Thanks,” said Norman.
“I mean, you’re not an agent of the Devil made flesh, is ya?”
“Of course I’m not,” said Norman.
“Of course you’re not,” said Winston, thrusting yet another gobstopper into his mouth, but still managing to speak somehow. “You wouldn’t do anyfink that would help the King of Darkness gain control of the world, would ya? Like bunging him the plans for the supertechnology?”
“I certainly would not.” Norman crossed his heart. “Just one thing,” said he.
“Yeah,” said Winston, with difficulty.
“Do you know the identity of this Devil-made-flesh chap?”
“Of course,” said Winston. “We’ve already been to his time, five years in the future. We had to scarper back here quick – he nearly did for Mr Wells.”
“So,” said Norman, “what is his name?”
“William Starling,” said Winston.
30
Old Pete sat before his allotment hut upon a battered campaign chair. The chair had seen many campaigns and Old Pete had seen them with it. Old Pete’s hut was of the corrugated-iron variety, with a pitched roof, curtained windows and a rather elegant porch that the oldster had added to make it stand out from the many similar sheds that bespotted St Mary’s allotments.
Not that there had been any need to, for Old Pete’s patch was a sufficient cornucopia to draw the eye on any day of the week. Even including Tuesdays.
He grew the most wonderful things.
Amorphophallus titanium rose erect and proud from iron tubs and Rajflesia arnoldi, which the natives of its native Sumatra believe is pollinated by elephants, covered many feet of ground. Lycopodium sp, the plant that Druids grew to bring good favour, blossomed alongside Lunaria annua, which was said to have the power to unshoe horses that stepped upon it. There was Ferula asafoetida, which wards off the evil eye, and something known as the Tree of Life, upon which bloomed certain fruit that Old Pete was disinclined to harvest.
All in all it was a garden unlike any other, with the possible exception of those belonging to Professor Slocombe, or Gandalf.
It was all rather special.
Old Pete took a sniff at the air. Fragrances of stinkhorn and stenchweed and arse violet filled the ancient’s nostrils. He took from the tweedy pocket of his elderly waistcoat an antique pocket watch and shone a torch upon its pitted face.
Eleven-fifteen of the evening clock. Old Pete shivered somewhat. He replaced his watch, switched off his torch and turned his jacket collar upwards. And then he shivered again. But it wasn’t from the cold. Old Pete ground his dentures together, rooted about between his feet, drew to his lips a tin can and took a swill of sprout brandy. It tasted good. The crop had come in early this year and the still that Old Pete illegally maintained within his hut had performed its duties well. The old one sighed and took another swill. He was not a happy fellow, Old Pete was not. He would be a happier fellow were he able to sit here, undisturbed, for another hour swilling sprout brandy and then take himself off to his bed. But Old Pete knew in his antiquated bones that this was not to be.
He knew, he just knew, what was about to occur.
He had tried for so long, for all these long long years, to put the past behind him, and indeed the future, if that was possible. But he knew that this was the night, the night he had dreaded all these years. It would happen tonight, or it would not happen at all.
Sounds came to Old Pete upon the gentle Brentford breeze, sounds that he knew well enough – the sounds that he had been dreading.
The sounds of swearing and of engine noise.
“Get a bl**dy move on, you b*st*rd!” shouted Noman.
“Is this appalling language really necessary?” asked Mr Wells.
“I’m sorry, Mr Wells,” said Norman, “but if I don’t shout at this van it will not work.”
“Technology ain’t up to much nowadays,” observed Winston from the back of Norman’s van.
“It’s the Hartnel Grumpiness Hyper-Drive,” Norman explained. “The engine is powered by negative energy. There’s so much of the stuff about, and none of it being put to good use.”
“And where exactly are we now?” asked Mr Wells.
“Turning into the allotments,” said Norman. “Go on, you sh*tbag!”
“The allotments,” said Mr Wells as Norman’s van bumped through the open gates on to the rutted track beyond.
“Like I explained to you,” Norman continued, “Peg will be home any time. I couldn’t have her finding you two and the Time Machine in her kitchenette. You know what women are like, they ask all kinds of uncomfortable questions and they’ll rarely take even a well-told lie for an answer.”
“And so we are coming to your allotment patch.”
“To my allotment shed, yes. We can hide the Time Machine inside and you and Winston can sleep in there for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll arrange for board and lodgings at Madame Loretta Rune’s in Sprite Street. She’s a Spiritualist, but she takes in lodgers. You’ll get bed and breakfast.”
“Ah,” said Mr Wells as his head struck the van’s roof. “Spiritualism, is it? I have some interest in that myself. I am currently investigating the case of the Cottingly Fairies. Two young girls have taken photographs of fairies, you know. Very interesting case. I am an expert on this subject.”
Norman swung the steering wheel. “You’re a useless swine!” he shouted.
“How dare you!” said Mr Wells.
“The van, sir, not you. Faster, you f*ckwit!”
“Quite so.”
“Although.” Norman’s van ploughed down a row of beanpoles, destroying Mr Ratter’s potentially prizewinning crop. “Although, I think you’ll find that it was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle who investigated the Cottingly Fairies.”
Winston chuckled.
“Why chuckle you?” Norman asked.
“Because Mr Wells is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It’s his pen name when he dabbles in a bit of fiction.”
“A mere hobby,” said Mr Wells. “The world will remember me as a great scientist, and a saviour of mankind.”
“But you don’t look anything like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,” said Norman, as Mr Kay’s cabbages went the way of all flesh.
“False moustache,” said Winston. “Not to mention the hat.”
“The hat?” said Norman.
“I told you not to mention that.”
“Ah,” said Norman. Thoughtfully. “Well, we’re here now. Would you like to get out?”
“Not really,” said Mr Wells. “I would prefer to repair to Madame Rune’s for a cognac and a cigar, before turning in for the night.”
“Nevertheless,” said Norman, “this, I regret, is where you will be staying tonight.”
Amidst much grumbling from Mr Wells and immoderate chuckling from young Winston as he shinned over the passenger seat, the three debouched from Norman’s knackered
van and into the moonlit allotments.
“You’re a very nice van indeed,” said Norman, “and I love you very dearly.” The van’s engine died and its lights went out.
“And what now, gov’nor?” Winston asked.
“That’s my hut over there,” said Norman. “The one with the solar panels and the wind-farm attachment on the roof. We’ll unload the Time Machine and drag it inside.”
“Just one thing,” said Mr Wells.
“Yes?” said Norman.
“Well,” said Wells, “I appreciate that you wished to remove us and my machine from your kitchenette before your wife returned home, in order to avoid having to answer any difficult questions.”
“This is true,” said Norman, opening the rear doors of the van. “A good wife makes a good husband, but a woman scorned is a mischief unto sparrows.”
“Possibly so, but that said, how will you explain to her the fact that you had to demolish much of the rear kitchenette wall, which you did in order to remove my machine from your premises?”
“She wants an extension building,” said Norman. “She’s been wanting it for years. I’ll tell her I started tonight, to surprise her when she got home.”
“Nice thought, gov’nor,” said Winston. “You’ll probably get yourself a shag out of that.”
Norman shuddered. But as with Old Pete, this wasn’t from the cold. “It never rains but it pours,” said he. “Please give me a hand with the Time Machine.”
It was a struggle.
But then isn’t getting a Time Machine out of a van and dragging it into an allotment shed always a struggle?
Norman unpadlocked his shed and threw open the doors. They were double doors. Norman had a very large allotment shed.
“This is a very large allotment shed,” said Mr Wells.
“It’s really a lock-up garage,” said Norman. “I bought it in instalments and installed it here.” Norman laughed foolishly, although for why, no one understood.
“There are certain things every man needs,” said Norman, once the Time Machine had been dragged within, the doors closed and the lights switched on. “A lock-up garage, an allotment shed and a wife who is always eager to please her husband sexually. Two out of three and you can chalk your life up as a success.”
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