by Brian Hughes
Marshal swallowed, observed the contours of a larger, altogether more portentous carriage beyond the anorexic youth, and decided that he was outnumbered. Cissy hitched up her skirts and ground a heel into the toes of his sneakers.
“How many of those things have managed to escape into Greyminster?”
“Let me at ’im,” came Mrs. Doyle’s distraught voice from where Jack Partridge was restraining her. It was more of a struggle than the sergeant had expected from such an invalid. “I’ll ’ave ’is bloody bollocks off ’im, I will!”
That comment stung. Hogan had already come close to losing his genitals several times in the recent past.
“I’m not sure...” he lied, unconvincingly perhaps but with a valiant effort nonetheless. “Five…maybe six.”
“Right!” Cissy grabbed hold of his lapel, tugging him across the torn leather seat in a remarkable display of what adrenaline can achieve. “Well you can bloody well get them back. And when y’ve done that, y’ can bugger off my world!”
The Greyminster Scrapbook Part Two
There follows an extract from Sergeant Partridge’s notepad. The page shows Jack’s keen illustrative ability. It’s covered with intricate drawings of home-invented aircraft. Each one sports a remote control antennae. Judging by the unique properties of these craft, which I shall endeavour to give the reader a full description of in the course of this interlude, it’s hardly surprising that none of them ever managed to get off the ground.
The page opens with a cross between a Lancaster bomber and a Spitfire with flames on either side of its nose. Below it hangs a finned Heinkle bomb pointing towards Greyminster. Trailing behind in the wind is a mannequin attached to a piece of string. The explanation is given as a: ‘Miniature Effigy of Constable Parkins.’ Beneath the etching in tiny letters there is an explanation, which reads:
The Partridge Bomber: Runs off the methane produced by the CID. Especially Inspector Reginald Nesbit. Bloody big jet engines propel the craft. The cargo-bay doors open beneath the fuselage to deposit the one-quarter scale bomb over Greyminster, the town hall for preference. In particular the department that deals with the Council Tax.
Beneath this is an illustration crammed with fantastic detail. Leonardo da Vinci would have been proud of Jack’s work.
The Illustrious Cat Rescuer:
An expansive pair of bat-like wings meet at the plane’s mid-section. This main body resembles an old engineering tram. A black funnel sprouts from the roof, belching smoke. Beneath the wings are open hatches with the words ‘Litter Dispersing Pouches’ given by way of elucidation. Beneath the plane, attached to a piece of string, is a furry gonk. ‘Something to grab hold of the Feline Attention.’
Here is a full description in Jack Partridge’s own words:
A steam-powered aircraft designed so that police no longer have to climb rotten trees in pursuit of stupid moggys. Not only do the fluttering wings attract the cat’s attention but also a concealed mallet in the undercarriage brings the misadventure to an end. This should help cut down on the number of weeks that constables spend in the hospital. It should also render the cat unconscious, a much better state for little old ladies to take care of them in.
Beneath these two illustrations is an aircraft that’s a cross between a Cessna and a Sopwith Camel. Two video cameras are attached to the wings. Sergeant Partridge takes up the story:
The Little Office Run-around: Designed to seek out and spy on Constable Jaye, thus answering one of the great mysteries of life; vis-à-vis ‘Where the Hell does she go to round the back of the station?’ An inconspicuous little number due to its ‘Squelch Controlled Engine.’ This craft can fly around the yard without attracting Jaye’s attention. It also has the ability to bring the brews back once she’s made them and possibly nip out to the corner shop for some cigarettes.
Filling up the lower section of the page is the most ambitious of Jack’s propositions to date. This illustration is covered with tiny notes. The rear end of the vehicle is a Sea King helicopter, the front end a Flying Fortress. Beneath are two hydrofoils to land the craft on water. Several layers of bolted wings excuse the contraption’s massive bulk. It’s the sort of design that’s more inventive than the ‘Aerodynamic Theory’ allows. It is called, quite simply:
Jack Partridge’s Miserable Bleeding Fokker: So named because of its unerring ability to crash into any ground based bloody object within fifteen seconds of take off. Not the only prototype to deserve this name. The Fokker comes in many varieties, all of them completely bloody useless! Sometimes I think I’d be better off taking up philately!!!
This is only one page from the collection of note-pads in the sergeant’s possession. Every one of his over-ambitious projects carries the same ridiculous hope of succeeding against all odds.
One thing that the sheet does bear testimony to though, take one overactive imagination, mix with a liberal helping of monotony, and the result is one pissed-off middle-aged man whose potential for achieving his aspirations is nil.
Chapter Six: Cecilia Doyle, Giant Frog Slayer
A small crowd of gooseberries with Jules Vernian apparatus across their shoulders gathered in a crescent and as one lurched forwards. The apparatus was made from stylish brass rods with red and yellow tarpaulins draped across for wings. The bristled green aviators swamped Amanda’s vision. And she awoke with a start, small beads of sweat dribbling down her temples.
To add to the shock, once her eyes were open, Amanda realised she was sitting bolt upright on her bed. The curtains were drawn and the duvet was crumpled into a dishevelled cocoon. It wouldn’t have mattered so much had she not been fully clothed.
What a horrible nightmare Amanda had been having. She crossed her eyes and checked her tongue. It looked normal, in as much as she could tell what a normal tongue looked like. Then she wetted her lips, removing the small cakes of sleep, and sat there puzzled. Either the night before she’d been on a pub-crawl and had drunk so much that her mind had imploded, or she’d been overdoing it with the football squad. Perhaps one of the old darlings had spiked her milk with some bad Valium. Whatever the case, her recollections of the last twelve hours were about as patchy as a London fog.
And the pain in her head was horrific.
She patted her hair cautiously. The ends of it ached. In a distant corner of her memory something troubling was working itself into the pith of her soul. Something that Amanda Duck couldn’t quite put a name to. As though all the evil in the universe was closing around her in blasphemous ranks.
Bleary eyed she gazed at the Mickey Mouse alarm clock on the bedside cabinet. Almost nine o’clock according to hand covering Mickey’s left testicle. That wasn’t like her. She decided that, for once, she’d just stay in bed. Or on it as the case might have been. It was too much trouble to put her pyjama’s back on. Perhaps in a while she’d get up and call the doctor. But right now the sleep would do her good.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were dead!”
Marshal Hogan stood upright, the bazooka over his shoulder dislodging several books from the shelves behind him. The tramp stirred, muttered something that manifested itself as a white froth on his whiskers, and reburied his grimy head into the newsprint. There was the clink of a bottle by his chair leg.
Cissy seethed, reluctant to speak to the double-crossing bastard by her side but aware that nobody else was going to tell him how the situation stood.
“Don’t touch him! That’s Jobless, the local wino. And don’t ask about his life story either!”
Hogan’s question hung on his lips like a lemming with a fear of heights.
“All I know is that he’s always pissed and he lives here. That’s all! So don’t try and start a conversation thinking you can get round me that way!”
“Right. So this place isn’t the morgue?”
“No! It’s the municipal library.” Cissy’s own bazooka scratched the tiled floor behind her, somewhat too large for her frail shoulders to keep aloft. She looked arou
nd at the glass-vaulted room. “Are you absolutely sure that bloody thing crawled in here?”
“What?” Hogan appeared to be shocked she’d even bothered to ask the question. “This thing’s never let me down yet.”
He studied the display on the black box in his right hand, strained his eyes, and smacked it hard on the corner of the desk.
Regardless of the fact that she was trying to save the Earth Cissy had insisted that she stopped off at her home en route. Now she was dressed in camouflage trousers, a vest so inadequately filled that it hung in semicircular pleats from her upper torso, and black Doctor Marten’s. It was a costume she’d owned for years, originally bought for a fancy dress party held by her good friend Allison Moore. Cissy had gone as Ripley, her heroine from the Alien films.
Which, on reflection, was a big mistake.
The other guests started off by calling her names such as ‘Ripley’s Believe it or Not’.
As the levels of punch had dropped, so had the tone of the insults. Within the hour some of the wittier guests had ventured such suggestions as ‘Rip-off’ and‘ Cripply’.
And eventually ‘Titless’.
Whereupon Cissy had burst into tears and run home.
The offending pantaloons and baggy vest were slung into the bottom of her wardrobe and locked in. And there they had stayed until today.
“This is where ‘Earth’ people...” She pronounced the word ‘Earth’ as though she was regurgitating. “Collate information. Books expand the mind and teach us things. It’s a bit like your ‘Computer Banks’.”
She spat those last two words from her mouth with unveiled contempt.
“Only you’ve got to know how to read.”
Hogan unearthed a battered volume at random.
“We’re not quite so backwards on this planet as you might believe!”
“The Thief of Hearts.” He read the title to himself. “A Jills and Goon Romance. Number 14,750.”
He flicked through a couple of pages, raised an eyebrow, and pocketed the paperback whilst glancing around.
“Not very busy is it? I mean, there’s not a lot of people queuing up to be educated.”
“It’s only just opened! It’s nine-thirty in the morning! And anyhow,” Cissy tugged the book from his trench coat pocket and thrust it back amongst the others. “I’m not speaking to you! Bastard!”
The assistant librarian entered, her high heels tottering through a door amongst the shelves. She continued to totter between the cabinets that reached up into the cathedral-like roof.
Suddenly animated Cissy grabbed Hogan by the arm and clung to him tightly. He struggled backwards but found the grip augmenting itself.
“Yeah. How about extending this ‘No Speaking’ rule to ‘No Touching’?” The other arm coiled about his waist like a boa constrictor.
Cissy hadn’t heard. She raised herself onto tiptoe and planted a hefty, constraining kiss on his startled lips.
It was the sort of kiss that went on for that little bit too long.
Or a lot too long as far as Hogan was concerned.
At length Cissy lowered herself again, turning her head in the direction of the counter.
“Oh, hello Debbie.” Cissy smiled delicately in an attempt to show as little of her brace as possible. “I didn’t see you there.”
Debbie Woodthorpe wrestled with the toppling mound of books and slammed her jaw shut.
“We’re a little over dressed for hiring out books about train spotting, aren’t we, Cissy?”
She struggled to position the unpredictable tower on the counter, returning the fragile smile in an unconvincingly civil manner.
“I don’t think so,” Cissy replied, ever so sweetly. If the atmosphere between them had become any more tense it could have been used in the construction of a bridge. “Still, it’s better than always being under-dressed, eh?”
Without warning Cissy suddenly felt herself going upwards, dangling from Hogan’s arm.
Hogan shuffled his shoulders into his trench coat collar, bringing the bazooka barrel level with his dark eyes. And he pointed the mouth of the weapon in the direction of Cissy’s archest enemy.
Cissy realised too late what he was up to. The deafening “NO!” was drowned out by the roar of the gun going off.
The mound on the counter detonated vivaciously. A cloud of confetti billowed out around Debbie’s face as the shell plunged headfirst into the ‘Returned Today’ case behind her. There was a thunderous crash that sounded as though the roof had caved in.
The shelving buckled. Then it rippled and the colour coasted onto the floor.
“You Bloody Mental Cases!”
Cissy unwound her arms, dropped with the agility of a cat and lifted her own bazooka unsteadily to her head. There was a noise that sounded something along the lines of ‘CaRump!” as the missile screamed across the desks towards Debbie’s frightened features. It collided noisily with the silicon creature behind her. But instead of exploding and showering the three figures with transparent flesh, the beast simply doubled-up, swallowed the projectile and then whooped with a triumphant war cry.
Debbie’s primly made-up face reappeared from behind the counter, wearing an expression of anxiety.
“What the Hell are y’ doing? You’re tapped, y’ bleedin’ nutters!” She regretted those words instantly. It wasn’t the sort of thing to say to a culturally backward woman. Especially one with a personal grudge who was more heavily armed than Arnold Schwarzenegger. The phrase “Cissy. You’re wonderful,” might have been more appropriate under the circumstances.
By a stroke of luck Cissy wasn’t listening.
“Get down y’ stupid cow!” She dropped the spent bazooka, tugged the automatic-phaser from her cartridge belt and let off fifty rounds of devastating plasma bursts. The effect was stunning.
Thousands of tiny paper fragments and splinters of wood ripped across the cabinets. There was something satisfying about the whole situation. All those years Cissy had spent being mindful of her own literary collection only to witness one now being torn apart in a matter of seconds.
“The ROOF!” she shrieked, pointing excitedly towards the dome.
“It’s called the ceiling,” the commander corrected her, patronisingly.
The smash of glass from above suggested that the creature had sidled out. It vanished with a ‘Glop’ into the watery backcloth, allowing the gathering wind to hurtle in through the opening and dart amongst the books.
“All right. The Roof.” Hogan reluctantly corrected himself, watching Cissy as she scrambled up the nearest cupboard.
About half way up she suddenly stopped, unhooked a wire from her belt and caught a glimpse of Debbie Woodthorpe from the corner of one eye.
“Call me a buck-toothed weasel, would y’?” she muttered pinching the grappling hook on the cable’s end between her fingers. “Tell my friends I had a mouth to rival the circle at Avebury, eh?”
She swung the line around in a circular motion, increasing its diameter with every rotation.
“Well? What do y’ think of me now then, Miss Smarty Pants Slag?”
And the hook vanished through the newly acquired skylight, clattered on something beyond and seconds later wound itself up with such force that Cissy disappeared behind it like a cork from a champagne bottle.
Hogan turned to the awe-struck librarian with a smile.
“You’ll have to excuse my friend,” he explained. “She’s suffering from a self-imposed sociological alienation complex brought about because of her stupid looking teeth.”
He studied Debbie from top to toe with an expression of favour, whilst in turn the assistant found herself rooted to the ground.
“Incidentally, if you’re not doing anything later on...” Hogan shrugged his shoulders as though the gesture would prize a positive response from her gaping lips. “We could make the Earth move...”
Still no rejoinder. Perhaps Earth people went to sleep standing upright. “Or any other planet you’
d care to mention...”
Cissy’s head appeared beyond the jagged fringe of glass above him.
“Come on spaceman,” she shouted. “It’s getting away!”
Several leaves blew in through the station doors, playfully jostling each other. They spiralled above the floor being flicked by a thermal and punched by a draught. Then they died without warning. Seconds later they went crunch beneath Jack’s boots.
“I wanna go ’ome!” Mrs. Doyle pulled backwards against the sergeant’s arm, her boots creating scuffmarks on the tiles.
“Mornin’ Jack.” Sergeant Foster scratched his ear with his pencil, eyeing the old woman up. “Brought us a trouble maker, ’ave y’?”
“Y’ could say that, Bill.” Jack forced Mrs. Doyle into a chair and then leaned across the ledgers with familiarity.
“Want me t’ lock ’er up and throw away the key?” Bill was a tall man and so gaunt that it looked as though somebody had sucked all the air from his cheeks through the wrinkled valve of his mouth.
“W’at I want and w’at I’m actually allowed to do by law, are unfortunately two entirely different matters.” Jack rubbed his arm where five little bruises boiled furiously below the surface. “No! I’ve just brought ’er in for ’er own good.”
He beckoned the scrawny sergeant closer conspiratorially. “Between you an’ me Bill, there’s something weird about the old bat!”
He nodded. The sort of nod that was more of a knowing wink. Bill tapped the pencil on the counter in acknowledgement.
“She managed to escape from me on the way ’ere. Found ’er propped up against a drainpipe. She’s bin actin’ a bit strange ever since.”