by Brian Hughes
“Marshal? Wasn’t it cruel to keep hamsters in cages? I’m sure that they would have been better off wild? Playing together without any restrictions?”
“Yes…well...” Marshal tugged again at the slab of meat. “There’s not much room to frolic joyfully in space, Cissy. Not unless y’ want your intestines t’ burst out of your stomach.”
To himself he muttered, “And believe you me, if I had this damned thing up and running I’d give you a demonstration.”
“I don’t understand.” Cissy was becoming more aggravating than a niggling itch. “Why were you transporting hamsters in the middle of a war?”
No response.
“What would have happened if they’d have got hurt? You weren’t planning on using them as carrier pigeons or something, were you?”
Hogan decided that he should have shot the interfering cow when he’d had the chance! Because it was too late now he swung round instead, caught the look of muted disbelief in the young woman’s eyes, pulled himself up short, and breathed in.
“No...no…of course not, Cissy Cecilia Doyle.” Think fast. Think fast y’ stupid burk. “I was delivering them to an orphanage on....”
But already Cissy had wandered off, ignorantly analysing the remains of the craft. Hogan cast her a disgusted glance before pursuing the conversation with himself.
“Before that bastard satellite spoilt my whole bloody life...” He raised his voice, shouting loudly so that the meddlesome girl could clearly hear him, “Don’t touch anything back there, Cissy. I wouldn’t want y’ getting a massive electrical shock through your teeth or somethin’ and blowin’ the top of your freaky little head off.”
A sudden gleam caught his attention. And for the first time since the accident the aching muscles around his mouth upturned with revitalised optimism.
On the deck of the blackened hull a bracelet pulsed with a strobe of almost inconspicuous green light. Hogan crouched down, felt his back go, stood up with his mouth puckered into a barnacle, and wrapped the thick strap about his wrist. After turning several small knobs and punching a few diminutive buttons there was a flicker in the air beside him and a static-filled outline appeared.
The curvaceous contour was instantly recognisable as that of the cheetah woman from the calendar.
“Bloody ’Ell.” Hogan gave ANN’s new personality the once-up-and-down. “The only decent lookin’ bird I’ve seen on this God forsaken rock so far, an’ I can pass me hand through her. Your programmer’s must have had a weird idea of ‘Personality Backup’ files ANN. What else have y’ got in there? The Child Molesting Pope of Alveron Minor?”
A massive yawn tore Jack Partridge’s features apart as he stumbled exhaustedly through the bathroom door. With towel in hand he rubbed the last residue of his black hair into a swirling crop circle around his bald patch. Beneath his arm the first edition of the morning paper had been neatly tucked inside the cover of Model Maker’s Monthly. His free hand held a large mug of steaming cocoa.
Jack had managed to arrange his home to accommodate an often rehearsed routine. As soon as he’d finished his shower he would turn off the kettle, make his cocoa and collapse into his great sagging armchair. It was within easy reach of his cigarettes. From this comfortable vantagepoint Jack could indulge himself in the mindlessness of The Big Breakfast before plodding upstairs to his welcoming bed.
Once the night shift was over Sergeant Jack Partridge transformed into plain and simple Jack. Ten years a widower and firmly set in his solitary habits, the ageing policeman had grown accustomed to spending his off-duty hours as he pleased. The front room was decorated with model aircraft and miniature trains. Imitations that utilised every shelf, ledge and alcove. Several antiquated designs even hung from the dusty ceiling on fishing line.
To some degree Jack actually enjoyed being a widower. Not that he didn’t miss the old girl at times. But he could come and go as he pleased without obligation. He could leave sections of remote-controlled aircraft all over the hearthrug on newspaper if he wanted, in the full knowledge that it wouldn’t get him into trouble. Not only that but he could wander around the building dressed however the fancy took him.
Which probably explained why right at that moment Jack Partridge was dressed in a tartan dressing gown that no self-respecting wife would have allowed her husband to be caught dead in. Regardless of its expansive nature the robe was untied at the front, the tartan belt not quite managing to reach around his waist. Beneath this monstrosity Jack wore a grey sweatshirt that he’d had for more years than he cared to remember. Under that was a jovial pair of Dennis the Menace boxer shorts.
He stopped in front of the latticed bay window. Almost immediately he brought his frantic head-rubbing to an equally sudden halt. Something beyond the collection of Airfix Boeings had caught his eye. Something unusual. Jack blinked. Checked to make sure that he was awake by biting his bottom lip. Blinked once more for good luck. And finally stared through the panes into the early morning gloom beyond.
The Partridge residence stood about halfway along Blackberry Crescent. Just an ordinary, modest domicile procured on the inconsiderable savings of the hard working policeman. However, its position granted the occupier a unique panorama. Almost immediately opposite, Blackberry Crescent intersected with Mulberry Grove. The designers of the factory estate had presumably been as devoid of imagination when it came to the street names as they had been when it came to the design of individual looking buildings. Two symmetrical terraces that resembled a lesson in Lowry’s perspective retreated towards the sooted chimneys of Stewartstones’ Slate Works that theatrically overshadowed the grimy canal.
Jack watched.
Something was happening at Mrs. Doyle’s. A monstrous slug that appeared to be composed from agglutinated water sidled down the kerbstone. Gingerly it snaked around the garden wall. Then it disappeared, its gelatinous appendage slithering into the rose bushes that constituted the border.
The rattle of milk bottles on the doorstep followed shortly, breaking the stillness of the morning with a clamour. One toppled forwards, rolling down the narrow path with the cold grind of glass across stone. A scarf of yellow milk concluded in a shiny top that the sparrows had been pecking at.
Jack couldn’t be certain about the proceeding events. However, he thought he’d noticed the cat-flap move at the base of the Doyle’s front door.
His hand fumbled awkwardly for the telephone receiver, an automatic reaction to trouble. The receiver managed to cover about half the distance between the trestle and his head before it stopped.
Confusion screwed itself up into a boxing glove of doubt across Jack’s features.
“No!” He shook his head. “No…it couldn’t have been...”
And the receiver rattled back onto the phone.
Cissy Doyle was suffering from one or two puzzles herself. She had discovered a sphere of metal about two feet in diameter. At least it had been spherical once. Now it was more of a crushed medicine ball. Remnants of words around its midriff read: ‘OF GOD ON’ in huge embossed characters. A not too distant memory swam into Cissy’s head. Admittedly the mangled ball was of a considerably more molten appearance but it still bore a resemblance to the animated sequence on one of Henry Higginbotham’s satellite channels. One of those monotonous sections of film that repeats over and over for the simple reason that the programmes don’t fit the scheduling properly.
It had obviously caused the damage that had sent the shuttlecraft spiralling out of orbit. That much was apparent from the mammoth rip down the right-hand side of the vessel. However, Cissy couldn’t equate the orb with the phaser blast that Hogan had described as being the instigator of his landing.
Moments later her determined stride became a more conscientious shuffle as whispers of conversation prickled her ears from behind the ruptured fin.
Cissy’s skin turned a cadaverous green as her eyes made contact with a scantily clad female. A female with six perfect breasts, pointed ears, long sharp whisker
s and the sort of figure that you’d normally witness sand running through.
Cissy next turned deathly white, then furious red. And she screwed her fists into irate bricks of concentrated sinew. But instead of stepping forwards to start the loudest argument she could, Cissy took a solitary pace back towards the engines. From this position she could listen to the clandestine conversation as it unfolded.
It was hard to believe that Marshal could find such a repulsive creature attractive. She was hardly his type now, was she? Not that Cissy knew what his type was but surely to God he had better taste than that? It was tantamount to bestiality.
Cissy thought about the hamsters and suddenly shuddered.
“So let me get this straight…the fuselage is shagged, the controls are knackered, the craft is ripped into six pieces, the Altarian Beasts have escaped, the Jon is torn in ’alf and me furry dice are burnt to a cinder?”
“Correct.”
ANN swaggered. Just a couple of paces up and down in front of the commander. Her firm thighs buoyed provocatively with the waddle created by her tapering heels.
“So there’s not much chance of getting off this bloody excuse for a Golgothran slag ’eap, then?”
“Not a great deal, Commander. It’s a shame about the Altarian Beasts though. Shouldn’t take them too long to eat their way through the population of Earth.”
“You’re telling me it’s a shame!” Hogan stomped his sneakers on the ground, raising a small mushroom of soot. “I ’ad a great little number going on there. Boggar Bistord the black marketeer on Aldebaran Prime offered me eighty bloody credits a piece!”
The homesick astronaut dejectedly kicked at a cobblestone, misery written across his rugged features. “There’s gotta be a way off this festering cesspit, ANN?”
It was a statement. But the sort of statement that had an upturned ending suggesting that in essence it was a desperate question.
“What about your little friend?” ANN smirked maliciously, chewing a length of her jet-black hair in a flirtatious manner. “She has a certain knowledge of the sociology behind this planet’s dominant species.”
“What?” With sudden irritability Hogan stared his companion defiantly in her holographic eyes. “That buck-toothed, mangy-faced, overbearing little freak?”
There was a gasp from the shuttlecraft’s rear end. A deeply saddened gasp. Hogan completely failed to notice as the noise whistled past his ear.
“Fat lot o’ good she’d be. She’s about as much use as a bidet in a chicken coop, that one. I’ve seen more sociologically aware gorillas at the Bootes’ Zoo eyeing up one of their old turds in the straw and wondering how hungry they are! And as for her mother! I’ll tell y’ what ANN…if I ever get out of this alive I’m going to ’ave her shot an’ stuffed. And ’ave her craggy senile old head mounted above me fireplace!”
“How Dare You!”
Marshal span round on his heels to be confronted by an enormous pair of waterlogged eyes. Two ponds of tribulation topping a reddened and sore looking nose. With her hands on her hips Cissy leaned forward, forcing her voice out at a volume that any other angle would have been incapable of sustaining. “You Bloody Lying Bastard!”
Then without another word the emotionally distraught teenager turned. And she ran, a stole of tears windsocking in her wake. The damaged satellite dropped onto the fire-blackened cobbles, rolling eerily around the grooves with the appearance of a squat bomb.
There was a rustle of rubber plant leaves. It was followed by an elongated slurp. An aphid backed off in terror, its tiny legs trembling. Moments later it tumbled head-over-heels into the earthenware pot at the entrance to Mary Doyle’s hallway. A glutinous mass emerged from the lush green fronds, leaving a slinking echelon of sparkling mucus across the hall carpet and through the lounge door.
The curtains that adorned the living-room windows had not yet been opened. Mrs. Doyle was in the process of attending to them at that moment. It was proving to be a difficult procedure, one that was conducted in various stages.
Step one involved hooking her twisted walking stick over a suitable banister.
Step two required the manoeuvring of her Zimmer level with the window ledge.
Step three found Mrs. Doyle balancing on the toes of her furry boots.
Step four meant grabbing one curtain between her claws and throwing her weight in the general direction that she wanted it to go. Trickier than you might suspect. If she misjudged the operation by a fraction of an inch then her scaffolding would topple over, Mrs. Doyle encased in it. And the old woman would end up sprawled across the parlour floor unable to get back onto her feet. Cissy had found her in that position on more than one occasion.
The amorphous organism shifted darkly beneath the doorframe, oozing itself between the back of the armchair and the flowered border. Then it waited, breathing menacingly just below audible levels.
With a grunt Mrs. Doyle eased herself down into the armchair, distractedly searching the cluttered room for the television remote control. Her eyes came to rest on the table lamp. The additional and never-seen-before-this-morning table lamp it should be noted.
In one swift movement the venerated dame grabbed it between her crooked fingers. Ever the misanthrope the thought crossed her mind that Cissy had been hiding this new accessory from her. Whatever reason her daughter might have had to do such a thing was academic.
Which was when the impossible happened. The bulb glowed intimidatingly.
Before Mrs. Doyle had time to check whether or not it was actually plugged in, the colours underwent an incredible transformation. Each individual pigment slid from the pottery base as though it was watercolour draining across a smooth metal palette. Then the overall mass appeared to alter, becoming gelatinous. The gastropod grew with the resolve of a lava-flow spewing itself from a volcano’s mouth, towering upwards in a tidal wave above the senior citizen’s head.
The back door to the kitchen flew angrily open, smashing against the notice board on the rear wall. Such was the force that the cork placard was instantly brought down from its nail, a spiral of plaster dust chasing it towards the stone sink.
Cecilia Doyle stormed in, her wounded heart broken into painful fragments. Stifled sobs courageously squatted behind her gritted teeth. She didn’t want that old bag of her mother discovering what had just happened at Brasswick’s. Christ, she’d never be allowed to live that one down. It’d be, “I told y’ so Cecilia.” And, “I said ’ee was a bastard! But y’ wouldn’t listen to your mother, would y’?”
She screwed her fists into white balls of bone, eyeing up the teapot where it stood smirking at her from the draining board. The idea of smashing it took possession of her mind. A meaningless act of violence might help to alleviate the tension.
It had started off such a good morning. Full of optimistic prospects and excitement and romance. But, as always with Cissy, that had managed to last approximately one hour before her dreams had been crushed.
She took a step across the floor.
Then froze in terror as the scream of an old woman ripped through the heart of the house.
Chapter Five: The Thrill of the Hunt
Amanda Duck sprinted onto the football pitch with her usual boundless enthusiasm. She stopped for a moment in the goal mouth, letting a football that bore the demeanour of a sphere of ice, drop from beneath her armpit.
Continuing to jog on the spot she surveyed the misty borders of the municipal park. The trees turned blue and then grey as they stepped themselves into the distance. Beyond stood the sketched wraith of the housing estate, its windows resembling yellow eyes spectating her sleepily.
Amanda took in a deep breath. An inhalation that would have made anybody else’s lungs sting, drinking in the drowsy atmosphere of the early morning. In the manner of ants stepping groggily from a poisoned hole, the Rosewood Rest Home Footballing Six milled aimlessly onto the pitch behind their ebullient coach.
Amanda discreetly tugged the microscopic shorts f
rom the crack of her bottom. Shorts so tight that peaked flesh was visible at the top of her slender brown legs. Spiritedly she released the intoxicating breath, generating a cloud of steam that froze to the bridge of her nose.
“Come on girls!” A rumble of discontentment smothered the geriatric platoon ambling towards her, discussing illnesses rather than tactics. “We’ve got a good couple of hours for practice before breakfast!”
Originally there had been eight members of the team. Amanda didn’t want to dwell on the recent loss of the goalie and the centre forward. If only she could have generated a bit more co-operation from the gentlemen at the retirement home, then who knows what sporting heights her fraternity could have attained? But the miserable old sods had just retorted, “Bugger Off. I wanna be left t’ die in peace!” and, “Why don’t y’ pick on somebody your own age, you inept social worker.” Or words to that effect give or take the odd four-letter word.
Mrs. Falstaff approached, managing quite well without her stick Amanda thought. She’d put her in goal and hope that no one was over vigorous with the penalties. The old dear looked like she might snap beneath the pressure of a well-aimed kick.
“Get those knees up, Ethel. Or I’ll have you running round the field!” The mutter of dissatisfaction from the huddle of grannies in their outsized football togs grew in volume. What had started some thirty-odd weeks before as merely a lark for the senior citizens had soon become a serious obsession for Amanda Duck.
“Over here!” Amanda grabbed Mrs. Falstaff’s attention with a loud holler engulfed in steam. “On y’r head!”
And she hoofed up the spinning ball of frozen dew with such impetus that it bounced off her goalkeeper’s cranium producing an empty, stinging ‘dink.’ As Mrs. Falstaff reeled backwards, Amanda was already off chasing the football.
“Miss McHerny? After that ball or it’s twenty press-ups and a cold shower for you!”