A Dog Called Demolition

by Robert Rankin

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘You do that.’

  And that was the end of that secret meeting. There hadn’t been much in the way of action, but there rarely is at secret meetings. There had been plenty of exposition though, which may have helped to tie up a few loose ends, or possibly confuse things further. It’s hard to say really. As hard to say as SNPHZJT.

  12

  I loathe people who keep dogs. They are cowards who haven’t the guts to bite people themselves.

  AUGUST STRINDBERG (1849-1912)

  You will find that the woman who is really kind to dogs is always one who has failed to inspire sympathy in men.

  MAX BEERBOHM (1872-1956)

  VINCENT TRILLBY

  After locking up the shop and depositing the evening’s takings in the night safe of the high street bank, Danny took a stroll over to the allotments. It was a fine, moony evening and a few last birds were chirruping away amongst the old oaks along the riverside. Danny whistled as he strode up the path between the picturesque huts and the well-tended plots.

  A wonderful thing, an allotment.

  Adam was the first allotment holder, you know. Or perhaps he was just God’s gardener. He didn’t get paid, that was for sure and he came in for a lot of rough handling all because he’d taken a bite or two of a Granny Smith, which hardly seemed fair.

  It wasn’t his fault anyway. It was all Eve’s fault. Did Adam and Eve have a dog?

  And who exactly did their sons marry?

  Danny had never had much to do with religion. But now he had his own personal holy guardian angel, he thought he might be prepared to give it a bit of a go.

  Mind you, he wasn’t actually certain which denomination his particular guardian angel was. The being who had taken up residence in his head was somewhat cagey about supplying any details. Danny couldn’t even persuade it to tell him its name. And as the voice was inside his head, and not heard through his ears, he actually couldn’t tell whether it was male or female.

  It was all a bit bewildering.

  When the voice had first spoken, Danny had gone all to pieces. Thought he was cracking up. Had cracked up.

  But the voice had been gentle, soothing, it had offered him advice. Calmed him. Promised him things.

  Things like a dog.

  A magic dog.

  The dog he was now constructing in his allotment shed.

  The top-secret dog.

  Danny reached the heavily padlocked door of his hut. He felt good inside, did Danny. Warm. At peace. He was certainly getting the change he so wanted, and marvellous times lay ahead. The future was full of hope.

  Oh yes.

  Danny sat down upon the clapped-out bench before his hut and kicked his heels idly in the dust. It was good here, on the allotment. He’d got the hut and plot really cheap. His guardian angel had known the very chap to phone at the council offices.

  The chap had been more than keen to offer Danny the plot.

  Mind you, it was a funny old plot.

  Circular it was, about thirty feet in diameter. And the land was quite black. Hard and black, as if burned. Nothing grew upon this plot. Not a blade of grass. Danny had thought this somewhat odd, but as he only wanted the use of the hut, he didn’t care too much. The other allotment holders gave his plot a wide berth. This suited Danny also, as privacy was the name of the game in which he was the star player.

  Indeed Danny’s plot, had it been able to speak, would have had a strange tale to tell. But, as with other allotment patches (barring that owned by a certain Mr Cox in Orton Goldhay), it was mute.

  So its tale must be told here, on its behalf.

  (With the promise that this will be the last separate tale told for a while. But it is a really good one.)

  It concerns Vincent Trillby.

  Exactly who Vincent Trillby was, why he came and where he eventually went to will never be known for certain. But his brief appearance upon Brentford’s regal acres caused a great sensation at the time. A time all of thirty years ago now. But one still spoken of.

  If only in low whispers.

  Trillby appeared one Wednesday morning, late April, in the year of ‘66, marching in a determined manner along the almost-crescent of Mafeking Avenue.

  He was not a tall man. In fact, the appellation ‘short-arsed little git’ fitted him as snugly as a knitted bed sock. He wore a grubby black frock-coat, battered brogues and a hat of his own design. Those who viewed his passing felt that here was a man who could take just a tad more care over his appearance, without fearing to incur the accusation of Dandyism. They also felt that here was a man to whom this was better left unsaid.

  And given that in later casual conversation, Trillby would claim that he could turn milk sour and deflower virgins with a single glance, they were probably wise to keep their counsel.

  Vincent Trillby walked alone. Short and dark and determined. Such men as he make poor companions. But excellent Nazi Reich führers.

  But let us not stone the man yet, for he has done us no harm. That in the months to come he would be directly responsible for the mysterious disappearance of Barrington Barber for sixteen days, and the fact that nothing would ever grow again on the thirty-foot diameter circle in the middle of The St Mary’s allotments, was not to be known at this moment of his coming. So, let’s just behave ourselves, shall we?

  Of Barrington Barber, what might be said? Well, Barrington was one of those tragic bodies who go through life with the permanent conviction that The Fates have personally singled them out for bad treatment. In the case of old Sam Sprout, this was correct. But not in the case of Barrington Barber.

  He was fine. Folk liked him; he liked folk. But it was not enough. Something in his psyche was all in a dither. He was certain that he was always being picked on and that dire plots were forever being hatched with the implicit purpose of doing him down. And the more his friends assured him this was not the case, the more assured did he become, that it was.

  Barrington saw spies behind every lamppost and heard his name whispered in every half-overheard conversation. ‘Those two blokes over there talking about me think I’m paranoid,’ he was often heard to remark. (Though it rarely got a laugh.) The day Vincent Trillby arrived was the day on which Barrington had become convinced that he was about to become the next victim in a particularly malicious series of dustbin burnings which was at that time plaguing the area.

  He was taking no chances and was dowsing down his bin with the contents of his teapot, when there came a knocking upon his gaily painted front door.

  ‘Oh mercy me, by Crimmins,’ gasped Barrington, making the sign of the cross. ‘It will be the gutter press. I’ve been outed, I just know it.’

  Barrington Barber walked through his kitchen, through his back parlour and up the short hall to the front door, as a man bound for execution. He was doomed, and he just knew it. With the resignation of the well and truly damned he swung the front door open.

  On the doorstep stood Vincent Trillby.

  Barrington looked over his head and then up and down the street. Then he looked under his head and observed the raggy clothes. And then he looked directly at his head and became all pale and bewildered.

  ‘What do you want?’ he managed.

  ‘Could I have an aspirin to go with this glass of water?’ asked Trillby, producing a full glass from his pocket.

  Barrington looked at the glass and once more at the man and decided he didn’t like either.

  ‘Aspirins give me a headache,’ said Barrington. ‘Milk of Magnesia upsets my stomach and I have a proprietary brand of shampoo in my bathroom that gives me dandruff.’

  ‘I’ve come to the right place then.’ Vincent Trillby presented Barrington with a well-thumbed calling-card. It read, VINCENT TRILLBY. RE-CONVENER.

  ‘Is that in capital letters?’ Barrington asked.

  ‘No,’ said Vincent Trillby. ‘It only looks that way. Might I just come in for a moment? I think it’s about to rain.’ />
  Barrington Barber peered up at the bright blue sky. ‘You have to be joking,’ said he. ‘You’ve as much chance of getting in here as, well, as there is of there being a storm.’

  The sky began to darken and the rain began to fall.

  ‘More tea?’ asked Barrington Barber.

  ‘And another biscuit, if you have one.’

  Vincent Trillby now sat in Barrington’s favourite armchair. He had his feet up on the Persian pouffe.

  Barrington took the little stranger’s cup and plodded off to the kitchen.

  ‘Why did I let him come in?’ he asked himself, as he topped up the teacup. ‘What am I doing leaving him alone in my front room?’ he also asked and, ‘Short-arsed little git!’ he added, although beneath his breath.

  When Barrington Barber returned to his front room his manner was, to say the least, a little brusque. ‘Drink your tea and then push off,’ he said. ‘And there’s no more biscuits.’

  Vincent Trillby accepted his tea with a show of great gratitude. ‘I am forever in your debt, sir,’ he said.

  Barrington scowled purposefully upon his unwelcome guest. Vincent Trillby, for his part, appeared immune to all hostility.

  Around and about the walls of Barrington’s front room were the trophies which spoke fluently of his particular hobby.

  ‘I see that you are a terrantologist,’ said Vincent Trillby.

  Somewhat startled by his visitor’s unusual perceptiveness, Barrington said, ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘I collect myself,’ said Vincent.

  Barrington scratched at his head, releasing flakes of dandruff. ‘How can you collect yourself? he asked.

  ‘No. I collect - comma - myself.’

  ‘Oh I see. A matter of punctuation. Your accent has me slightly addled. Where exactly are you from?’

  ‘I’m from down under,’ said Vincent, and the matter was allowed to drop.

  About an hour later Barrington was to be seen trudging through the rain en route to Brentford Station, where he would collect Vincent Trillby’s heavy suitcase from the left-luggage office. Trillby, at this time, lazed upon Barrington’s bed, his sinister footwear soiling the eiderdown and his stumpy little hands behind his head.

  He was smoking Barrington’s pipe.

  Vincent Trillby had come to stay.

  That night, Barrington Barber took Vincent up to The Flying Swan to meet the lads and get acquainted. Vincent got in a generous round (which was never repeated and which proved later to have been purchased with pennies from Barrington’s darts club money), raised his glass and said, ‘Skol,’ and, ‘Good health.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ asked Archroy.(who had yet to take up Dimac, or find The Ark of Noah) ‘I can’t place your accent.’

  ‘I’m from down under,’ said Vincent Trillby. ‘Do you know where I might rent an allotment patch?’

  Now, whether this question was merely conversational, as had been the terrantology remark, or whether Vincent Trillby really wanted to rent an allotment patch, was not immediately knowable, but the effect that it had on The Swan’s patrons was – how shall we say? – marked.

  All conversation ceased and twenty-three pairs of suspicious eyes turned upon Vincent Trillby.

  Neville, the part-time barman, was the first to speak. ‘What do you want with allotments?’ he asked. ‘Are you from the Customs and Excise?’

  Vincent shook his head. And apparently unfazed by the electricity in the air, he said, ‘I need a plot of land.’

  Barrington took the small man to one side and put him wise. ‘You do not just walk into someone’s local and start asking for an allotment patch,’ said he, making furtive side glances towards those he knew to be talking about him. ‘People are apt to become apprehensive and possibly hostile. An allotment is a place of sanctuary. A sacred place. Visiting one’s allotment is a bit like making the pilgrimage to Mecca.’

  ‘How much like?’ asked Vincent Trillby.

  ‘Not much really. But listen, certain things take place on allotments. Certain things which are not, in the eyes of the law, strictly above the bread board. Certain plants are grown, certain spirits distilled. I don’t wish to go into this too deeply, but I’m afraid you have as much chance of getting an allotment patch around here as there is of…’ He sought something suitably absurd with which to make his point. ‘As there is of Sam Sprout over there getting a round in.’

  ‘So, what are you all having?’ asked Sam suddenly.

  ‘About this plot of land,’ said Vincent.

  How it came to pass that a week later old Arthur Card became fatally entangled in the coils of his garden hose and died leaving his allotment patch to Vincent Trillby was anyone’s guess. But those who had their suspicions kept them to themselves. Vincent Trillby was already acquiring a reputation as a man it was better not to cross.

  Those who came into proximity with his diminutive person generally went upon their way with lighter pockets and heavier hearts.

  Catholics crossed themselves as he marched by.

  Babies filled their nappies.

  Archroy called round at Barrington’s one morning to bid him the best of the day and assure him that whatever the dreaded eventuality currently filling his mind might be, it was nothing he should worry himself about (and possibly to scrounge a cup of coffee). Vincent Trillby appeared in the doorway, drinking a cup of coffee and wearing Barrington’s dressing-gown.

  ‘He’s gone away for a couple of weeks,’ said Vincent. ‘Now clear off or I’ll set my dog on you.’

  Archroy took his leave.

  It soon became noticeable, to those who notice such things, that although Trillby was still about, he was for the most part only observed during night-time hours, and with furtive expression and scurrying feet.

  And it was Archroy who was the first to notice that something was strangely amiss with the late Arthur Card’s allotment patch.

  Archroy, John Omally and Father Moity stood upon the brim of the once-plot and stared down into what looked for all this wonderful world of ours, like a very deep crater indeed.

  ‘It wasn’t here last night,’ Archroy assured the other two lookers-down. ‘I noticed it this morning as I was on my milk round.’

  John Omally lifted the flat cap he wore at the time and scratched at a curly forelock. ‘Is it dug?’ he asked. ‘It has more the look of being caused rather than dug.’

  ‘It’s that Vincent Trillby,’ said Archroy. ‘I’ve seen him skulking around here at night. I tell you, that man is up to no good. We should go and confront him. Strike him, if needs be.’

  Father Moity sucked upon the briar he smoked at the time and fingered his clerical collar. ‘I am not so certain that there is anything to confront Trillby with. After all, this is his plot now and he will no doubt tell us that he has been turning the sod. Adding that we should be off and mind our own business.’

  ‘I think he’s in league with the Devil,’ said Archroy, suddenly.

  ‘And I must be off about business of my own,’ said Father Moity, hoisting up his cassock and having it away on his toes. His appearance in the story had been brief, and, even for a man of the cloth, quite without any lasting merit. ‘Farewell.’

  John Omally peered down into the darkness beneath. ‘It is a very deep pit,’ said he, ‘and I cannot see its bottom.’

  Archroy chewed this observation over for a moment or two, coupled it with his own last remark and came to a sudden, though not altogether welcome, conclusion. ‘The Bottomless Pit,’ said he.

  ‘The what? asked John, who had been idly kicking stones into the hole and listening in vain for a sound.

  ‘The bottomless pit. John, what is the date?’

  Omally, who owned neither watch nor calendar, but had a good memory, said, ‘The sixth of June.’

  ‘And the year?’

  ‘1966, of course.’

  ‘Hoopla!’ said Archroy. ‘The 6-6-66, now there’s a thing.’

  ‘So what?’ asked John.

&nbs
p; ‘What’s the time?’

  Omally shrugged. ‘I was pretty impressive knowing the date, please don’t push things.’

  And ding-dong (merrily on high) went the church clock of St Mary’s.

  ‘It’s five-thirty,’ said John. ‘And opening time.’

  ‘Not tonight.’ Archroy put on a desperate expression. ‘Five-thirty p.m. and, if I’m not mistaken, the trouble will start at six minutes past six.’

  ‘You’ve lost me,’ said John Omally. But Archroy hadn’t.

  ‘We’d best go round to Barrington’s house now,’ said the lad. ‘See if the villain is there. Time, as they say, is running out.’ And the two men ran out of the allotments.

  As they rushed towards Mafeking Avenue, Archroy breathlessly explained the theory that was blooming in his head. ‘It’s that Vincent Trillby,’ he spluttered. ‘He gets the allotment and he builds The Bottomless Pit, or he digs it, or causes it to appear, or something. And if I’m not mistaken he’s waiting for that very moment that only occurs once every century, to release all the horrid nasties onto unsuspecting mankind.

  ‘According to the Book of Revelation, the great beast’s number is 666. So that exact time would be six minutes past six on the sixth of the sixth, sixty-six. Double whammy. This Vincent Trillby is old Nick himself.’

  Omally huffed and he puffed. He wasn’t any too keen to hear this kind of talk. But it somehow made all kinds of sense. ‘Didn’t he say that he’d come from down under?’ asked John, as he huffed and he puffed.

  And the two rushed on. Archroy quoting all he knew of The Book of Revelation and Omally shaking his head and rolling up his sleeves. Presently they reached Mafeking Avenue.

  ‘Number twelve,’ said Archroy.

  Omally counted the houses as they ran. ‘Number six, number eight, number ten, number–’

  ‘Number fourteen,’ said Archroy. ‘Now there’s a thing.’

  ‘And there’s another,’ said Omally, as the sky suddenly darkened. ‘Is that a great big storm coming or what?’

  ‘Or what, would be my guess. Back to the pit. Back to the pit.’