by S. B. Davies
Dave followed down a side corridor and through double swing doors into a bright factory floor filled with machines and slowly moving conveyer belts. All sorts of books carried along by the belts that disappeared into holes in the wall. There was a quiet background hum and a chemical smell. They walked between the machines, climbed stairs and along catwalks until they reached a large padded door in a quiet corner of the huge room. The Noggin put its hands over it ears and nodded its head. Dave shook his head and the Noggin opened the door.
Inside was a row of long tables. On each table book pages laid out. At the end of the row was an enormous metal desk with a large computer screen behind it. A grey-haired Noggin sat at the desk examining a battered leather notebook.
The Noggin approached the desk and spoke. Dave didn’t understand, but the words seemed respectful and the sniffing deferential. The grey-haired Noggin finally shook his head and turned around to face the computer screen. His hands moved and images flew around the screen.
There was a muted chime and the Noggin returned to Dave and handed him a small leather bound book. The title:
Guide To the Huddersfield Catacombs
(A work in progress)
Dave opened it and read the frontispiece:
This book is to celebrate the tri-centenary of the establishment of the Huddersfield allotments and the stewardship of Mr Dave Trellis.
Based on the notebooks of Samuel Coleridge and other explorers.
With sincere thanks from the residents of the allotments
Dave was touched, the tri-centenary wasn’t until next year, it was nice to know they had made an effort. He leafed through the contents. It had maps, drawings, notes on denizens and their habits, advice on where to go and how to get there, lists of required equipment and an extensive section on things not to do. The Noggin took Dave’s hand and led him out of the room.
‘Do you have any concept of the staircase?’ said Dave and shook his head. He looked at the huge brass funnel in the ceiling. It reached down to within a few feet of the floor and Dave could feel a draft going into the funnel. He had an idea of what was to come and he didn’t like it. Dave bowed and took a ceremonial sniff of the Noggin. It smelt of old hay. He ducked under the rim of the funnel and jumped up.
Fergus stopped reading. It was fascinating and frightening all at the same time.
JFK assassinated by a four man patrol from A squadron 22 SAS for almost starting world war three. The British lost their entire spy network in Russia in the scramble to stop the missiles launching.
Marilyn Munroe not murdered by the Mafia, but living on to a happy retirement in Lake Tahoe.
The French deliberately stranding the British Expeditionary Force at Mons to slow the German advance.
The huge practical joke of UFOs and Howard Hughes’s sense of humour.
The vast Diamond hoax and the amount of Lead in national Gold reserves
After a break he would try a different book, something lighter. As he walked towards the nearest loo, he noticed an archway drawn in yellow light on the wall at the end of the corridor. Fergus decided on a quick peek in the visitor’s wing. As he crossed over the threshold Fergus felt some resistance and a twinge somewhere deep in his head.
On the other side Fergus turned round. From this side there was no wall, just the corridor stretching away. He examined a nearby bookshelf and did not recognise the strange curled script. He walked on feeling a little disappointed. Then he recognised something. It was the writing on the spine of a book sitting on an almost empty bookcase. Among the books, a slim volume titled ‘History of the Huddersfield Allotments’. Fergus picked up the book and slipped into his back pocket. There were six copies of Dave’s book there too, outnumbering the Bible three to one.
Refreshed and seated on a comfortable sofa in the junior reading room, Fergus began to read the ‘History of the Huddersfield Allotments’. On a personal level, it was more surprising than ‘The True History of the Last Hundred Years’.
Dave wasn’t sucked up the tube like a dust bunny in a vacuum cleaner as he expected, instead it was an exotic paternoster with no belt or steps. Dave floated upwards; he waved at Noggins going down the other way.
The tube curved over Dave’s head and he started going down. The tube opened out into a large brass funnel and he dropped the last few feet to the floor. Dave ducked out of the funnel and found himself in a simple circular room with more tubes set in the walls. There were signs above each tube, but the symbols made no sense at all.
Dave hardly noticed them. He was looking through the glass panelled double doors in front of him. Beyond was a garden; a garden with a pub in it. Not, you understand, a ‘Pub Garden’, with its tired benches, geraniums in tubs and drifts of cigarette ends, but a large formal garden that had, placed neatly on the edge of its lawn, a modest white washed building with a sign ‘The Write Inn’.
A neat stone wall marked the boundaries, beyond was only sky. It was a roof garden that could be anywhere. Dave’s feet enjoyed the soft bounce of the immaculate lawn and his brain was happy – it was heading for a pub.
‘What do you think you’re doing here?’ said a loud female voice.
Dave turned round to see a tall woman sitting upright in a cast iron garden chair. She wore an expensive black suit, the skirt slightly short of prudent. It was perfect power dressing for the modern woman.
She sat in a small patio, hidden from direct view by shrubbery. On the table, a platter of bread and cheese and two bottles of red wine. Dave felt the embarrassment of an interloper, but enticed by the beauty and shape of the woman. Her expression changed to amusement and she snorted.
‘Oh it’s you. Finally got up the gumption to tell the petty bureaucrats to get stuffed no doubt.’
‘Pardon?’ said Dave.
‘Mr David Trellis, the Planetary Plenipotentiary, and Steward of the Allotments, welcome to the joys of a full library card. Come and join me. I haven’t seen you since the wedding.’
At last Dave understood. The graceful, athletic build, the fabulous figure, the lovely face and the amused glint in the eye. She was one of them. Even so how could any man be graceless in the presence of such beauty?
‘You have me at an advantage madam; I don’t recall your name.’
‘Zuza. We danced at your wedding – how could you forget. I flirted and made you an offer you shouldn’t have refused. Then again I only did it to annoy Maeve. How is she by the way?’
And Dave remembered; Zuza was Maeve’s best friend until the wedding day; his wife hadn’t spoken to her since.
‘I am sure she’s fine,’ said Dave, ‘I thought you would have met when she went home.’
‘Oh I haven’t been there for ten years,’ said Zuza, ‘Anyway, congratulations on finally joining the Library.’
‘Ah, well that’s bit of a moot point.’
‘Oh? Still the poodle then?’
‘It’s more complicated than that,’ said Dave, ‘fancy hats and titles don’t make things work.’
‘You’re supposed to be the leader of the human world; a little respect is due, along with a little backbone.’
Dave raised his eyebrows and stifled an impulse to defend himself.
‘I am sure you right, as in all things.’
‘Ah, the ‘lead from the back’ ethos. Your hair shirt is showing Mr Trellis.’
‘And gold braid and parades would make things better?’
‘Your record of running the allotments does make your point I suppose. Here, have some wine and bring me up to date on Maeve and your lovely daughter. Abbey isn’t it?’
Dave sighed. He took the offered glass of wine and stared into it for a while.
‘Abbey’s dead and Maeve left me,’ said Dave.
Zuza looked shocked.
‘What happened?’
‘The allotments were attacked and Abbey was killed. No, that’s not true. I took a course of action that killed her. Maeve was distraught. We found being together only reminded us of ou
r loss and she left. Went on an expedition to… To the other place.’
‘A glorious quest.’
Dave stared at Zuza.
‘Why is it that every generation you lot charge off, like a hoard of armoured lemmings, on a pointless, suicidal mission to the ends of the Causeway.’
‘We want to go home.’
‘You are home. That stuff is just legend.’
‘It is not. The Exodus is a well-documented, historical fact,’ said Zuza.
‘Can’t be that well documented. Didn’t anyone think to make a map?’ asked Dave.
‘We are warriors, not cartographers.’
‘Aye, all gold and gauntlets. Once more unto the breech and damned be he who says, hang on a minute, shouldn’t we keep track of where we are going.’
Zuza sighed. ‘I am sorry for your loss, but arguing won’t do any good. Anyway, many expeditions return.’
‘Not after this long.’
‘Why not search for her, you have excellent resources?’ asked Zuza.
‘I thought about it. Still do, but she left me and finding her wouldn’t change anything. Abbey would still be gone.’
Dave sipped at his wine and looked around at the garden, embarrassed at talking so openly to a casual acquaintance. They chatted about the garden and enjoyed the sunshine. Zuza shared her food and wine; it was for a while, a pleasant interlude.
‘Well, I best be going. I have people waiting and a planet to save,’ said Dave.
‘Always so melodramatic, Mr Trellis.’
‘In this case it’s true, not that you lot would care. Mind you, if it all goes pear shaped, you might find a couple of million refugees heading down the M7 towards your little medieval fantasy land.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘I bloody would. Where else is there to go.’
‘And we would stop you; It is our land,’ said Zuza.
‘Good luck with that. I look forward to your traditional armoured knights meeting our traditional AK47s. Full metal jackets on both sides.’
‘It wouldn’t come to that; we have co-existed peacefully for eons.’
‘Well, whatever, I have to get a move on. Good day,’ said Dave and stood.
‘Goodbye Dave and good luck. Oh, and you want the third tube to the left of the door.’
Zuza smiled at him and for a moment Dave saw Maeve’s beautiful face. He fought down the bitterness and forced a smile, then walked across the lawn, back to the tube room, holding the precious book to his chest.
Dave found Fergus in the Junior Reading Room.
‘Sorry I’m late lad, got talking. Come on, the mutt will be waiting. Always punctual are your dogs and snide about tardiness.’
‘That’s alright Dave. I’ve enjoyed having my eyes opened. Mind you, it’s not that surprising. My uncle Bran was always telling me stuff like this, though I only half believed it at the time. Anyway, how do we know it’s all true?’
‘Such cynicism in one so young. We know it is true, because they hide it from us. Now let’s get on.’
They met the Dog at the top of the stairs leading to the main entrance. It growled something.
‘Alright, keep your hair on,’ said Dave and led the way downstairs. Dave strode past the counter with a suspicious nonchalance.
‘Ahem. What do you think you’re doing Mr Trellis?’ said the librarian.
‘Walking in a straight line toward a well-deserved beer. Why the curiosity Librarian? Intending to join us?’ replied Dave.
‘No Mr Trellis, the book.’
‘What this,’ said Dave and held the book up.
‘Indeed Mr Trellis. I didn’t think I need remind you of the rules.’
‘This here is not a library book, Librarian. It is by way of a gift from a stalwart of this very establishment. While it has pages and words, it does not come under the remit of your authority.’
‘Information Mr Trellis, information, that is my remit. That book contains information from the Library and so does indeed fall within the boundaries of my authority.’
‘The boundaries of your authority are looking a little stretched Librarian. This here is a thoughtful gift to the Planetary Plenipotentiary and Steward of the allotments from a grateful community. So unless you have some serious machinery with which to pry it from my grasp, I suggest you go and find something to file. I’d start with the ‘A’s.’
‘I think not. Ushers if you please.’
Two large, well-formed men, dressed in tails appeared in the archway. They gave the impression of little humour and even less patience.
Dave sized them up.
‘Have either of you gentlemen heard of the Way of the Whippet?’
One of them nodded.
‘I happen to be a Shedi Master,’ said Dave.
One of them took a small step backwards.
‘Good day Librarian. I must be going,’ said Dave and walked toward the door.
One of the Ushers stepped forward; the other grabbed his arm and gave a small shake of the head.
‘This is outrageous, give that book here. Right now,’ said Librarian and stepped out from behind the desk.
Dave sighed.
‘I like you Librarian and we’ve known each for a long time. So in deference to past assistance, I’ll resolve this situation. Here Fergus.’ called Dave and tossed the book to Fergus.
‘Take this book out will you lad.’
Fergus caught the book and smiled at Librarian.
‘That’s two books on my ticket then.’
‘Indeed Mr Loaf, two books. I hope you enjoy them for the allotted period of the loan.’ Librarian’s demeanour verged on the impolite.
Dave strode out of the Library followed by Fergus and a grinning dog.
Dave rubbed his hands together.
‘Well that turned out grand. Come on, I’ve booked us into Claridge’s as by way of a treat. They allow dogs, which saves the mutt spending all night in Battersea Dogs Home. I’d pay good money to see that, but it’s not worth the sulk on the way home.
By the way Fergus, what’s all this about two books?’
Chapter Eight
Success comes from simple things; complexity is bogus.
Dave Trellis
One Life, One Woman, One Shed
Fergus woke on a camp bed in the middle of a large, white, empty room with a wooden floor. He didn’t know where he was and his headache was so intense it deserved a new classification. It was epic.
He remembered some things; drinking beer in a brass and bullshit London pub; Dave standing on a table and pointing his finger at a group of enraged women. There was almost certainly a fight. Fergus recalled a ballet of violence for one man and his dog performed to ‘Sally Maclennane’. There were blue lights and blue serge somewhere in the mix. Perhaps that explained the handcuff on each wrist like street-bling bracelets
There was more, a pair of bolt-cutters, the splendour of a full suite at a posh hotel, a dog floating on its back in a huge bath with a grin on its face. A polite Manager and a calm retreat via the goods lift to a chauffeur driven Bentley that sailed past badly parked police cars, arrayed with self-important indignation, in front of Claridge’s hotel.
There were hazier memories of cigars and Irish whiskey on a hillside overlooking the twinkling lights of Brentford and a mad, weaving cycle ride, with whooping and barking, as he tried to choose between the many wavering roads ahead of him.
He definitely recalled the goods entrance. It was hard to forget a door the size of a football pitch opening from nowhere. Then he must have fallen asleep in front of the fire, as Dave told tales of Coleridge’s expeditions to the deep catacombs.
Fergus struggled to his feet and waited till his head stopped pounding. With small, slow steps he made it through the door and into the next room. It was larger with a modern fitted kitchen at one end. Fergus decided that he must be in one of the guest apartments. With more hope than expectation, he opened the fridge. It was completely empty, except for a single ca
n of Irn-Bru. Fergus rubbed the cold can against his forehead, opened it and took a swig. The cold fizzy drink took away the awful taste in his mouth, and the bubbles hurt his nose.
Behind another door Fergus found the bathroom, complete with shower and bidet. After a quick splash and one much longer one, he decided to make his way to Dave’s for tea and painkillers.
The corridor outside the apartment had carpets and tasteful pictures on the wall. Only the lack of windows stopped it looking like a modern hotel. After opening a few doors, Fergus found a lift. It was the same scruffy goods lift as before. There were six unmarked buttons. The top two and the bottom one showed obvious signs of wear. Fergus pressed the top button.
Fergus stood in Dave’s kitchen, worse for wear, lacking social skills and trousers. He saw a woman in an apron. She was that age when Yorkshire women having seen everything, become an institution; a bit like the Queen Mother. They could do no wrong. Her eyes were bright and she smiled.
‘Eee you look like you could do with a brew, I just made a pot. You must be Fergus, Mr Dave said you’d be staying; I’m Sandra, I fettle a bit for Mr Dave.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t expect anyone to be here,’ said Fergus ‘but tea would be lovely.’
‘Sit down chook and have a cuppa, you look all in,’ said Sandra and plonked a mug of tea on the table.
There was yowling and two dogs raced into the kitchen and bounced up to Sandra.
‘Hello my little thrustlers,’ she said and ruggled the first dog on the head. ‘Who’s a good doggy?’
Fergus watch in amazement as the dogs fawned and lay on their backs to have their tummies rubbed.
‘Don’t worry chook, I have special dispensation,’ said Sandra and laughed, ‘So you’ll be living in with Mr Dave then?’ asked Sandra and sat down opposite Fergus.
‘Sort of, I have one of the other apartments, but there’s no furniture yet.’
‘Eee I think that’s grand. This place been empty since Miss Maeve went. It’s not good to be alone, especially when you have so much on your mind, like Mr Dave. Have you met all the visitors yet?’
‘Dave gave me a short tour. So you know all about the allotments?’