by Brian Hughes
Oh yes...and they’d conveniently forgotten to download the bit of his memory that related to the accident. Now he couldn’t even recall how he’d died. He knew it wasn’t heroic but it would have been something to pass on to the grandchildren. Ha, grandchildren? What bloody chance was there of grandchildren now?
Grand-automatons perhaps, the clockwork offspring of his iron nuts. God help him when he went to the toilet! It wouldn’t be long before his privates went rusty.
He suddenly decided to make a New Year’s resolution early. “No more alcohol. In fact, no more liquids of any sort!”
Ever since his adventure with the Great War he’d been gunrunning unwittingly for the double-crossing bastards. And he’d thought he was being clever, smuggling dangerous pets from one corner of the quadrant to the other. Bloody Pets! What a jerk he’d been! No wonder he could translate over four thousand languages without having been to college. What had he been thinking of? Did he honestly think he’d learned the technique from the back of a matchbox? Now that he came to think about it, there was his uncanny ability with all things mechanical as well.
“They’ve got me by the short and curlies, eh?” Hogan muttered beneath his breath. It was a rhetorical question. Having thought about that he corrected himself, “Short and wiries...”
There was a crack as the bazooka barrel rattled down curb.
“Something’s got to be done!” Cissy interrupted him. “You’ll have to put your problems behind you for now. We need to find out what’s going on!”
“Cissy! For God’s sake?” Hogan’s mouth lopsided into a disbelieving snarl. “Find out what’s going on? How can someone have eyes the same size as the ‘great Johuvian flat fish breaking wind’ and be so blind? Isn’t it obvious what the bloody Hell’s going on?”
Both slowed to a standstill, Cissy searching her companion’s features in the dim light from the Chinese takeaway. Had she hoped to find an answer etched into the big square jaw, it was in vain. There was nothing written across his face but self-importance and despondency.
“No it isn’t obvious to me!” She shook her head desperately. “All I know is that they’ve done something nasty and vicious to Amanda Duck. She might have been a bit potty but nobody deserves to have their dinner deconstructed.”
“DNA reconstructed! It’s her DNA y’ sad...”
For a moment compassion overtook Hogan. Like most men Hogan kept his sympathies locked inside for extreme emergencies. The concept of the new man was something that hadn’t as yet reached the rest of the galaxy. At least there was that in his favour. It would have been awful if the first of Earth’s interstellar explorers had run across some alien drinking herbal tea and trying to get in touch with his inner feelings.
For a short time he stared at the morose little creature before him. She might have resembled an antique back-scratcher, and she might have had the personality of a Muldramian skunk-rat, but as Cissy kept on reminding him, it was her world and they were her people. And in her own inimitable fashion she was just trying to do the best she could.
“Cissy...” he began, faltering slightly. “I thought that I was smuggling Altarian Beasts to some fence on Aldebaran Prime. As it turned out Boggar Bistord was an undercover agent working for the Old Empire.”
Cissy blinked and continued to stare questioningly into his eyes.
“It was a set up. The Altarian Beasts could be a great asset in the War Effort. They’re capable of doing a lot of damage when dropped on unsuspecting heads...”
“And you didn’t suspect a thing?” It wasn’t so much a question as an accusation. “You just thought that you were delivering some ‘pets’?” She almost sneezed the word from her nostrils.
“Cissy, look. I’ve been dead for almost forty years without knowing it. That’s how come the front line of the Great War has shifted sector!” Hogan stared pleadingly at her but Cissy’s expression had already solidified.
“So what about Amanda Duck? What’s she got to do with that preposterous pack of crap?”
“The Old Empire can’t allow their deadliest weapon to roam the galaxy unrestricted, can they?”
“Or Earth! Just Earth! Seeing as I find it highly improbable that those killer snot monsters could construct a space craft and bugger off into the night...”
“All right, Earth! There’s no way the Old Empire could allow the New Empire to get its grubby mitts on such a deadly weapon anyhow!”
There was a thoughtful pause during which Cissy stared patiently at her Doctor Martens. At length she raised her scowling forehead.
“So...what’s that got to do with Amanda FUCKING DUCK!”
“Amanda Duck has been physically altered! She’s one of them now! In fact she’s the Altarian Beast Queen.” He stared at Cissy’s cold, impassioned eyes, hoping beyond hope that his explanation was finally managing to get through. “The Old Empire are trying to gather them all together in one place.”
“What for? An Altarian Beast party? Bring a bottle and a spare liver!”
“SO THEY CAN DROP THE FUCKIN’ TACHYON BOMB ON THEM!”
The volume of that last remark brought the conversation to an abrupt halt. A worried oriental face peered through the window behind them. Several moments later Cissy positioned her skinny fists on what, on any normal woman, would have been her hips and glowered.
“There’s no call for that sort of language, Mr. Spaceman!” It was an odd fact about Cissy that no matter how much she detested her mother’s dominant character, when crisis reared its head she always adopted the same approach. “Forgive me for being ignorant or cynical in any way but seeing as the big Tachyon bomb was dismantled by your good self and the little Tachyon bombs are still all onboard the Firestar...”
And the penny finally started to drop. It was becoming obvious that Hogan might not, for once, be hiding behind a barricade of lies.
“What exactly are we going to do when we get to Patternoster Row?”
Her voice had a slight edge to it now. Commander Hogan picked up on that.
“See this..?” He drew the DNA reconstructer from his trench coat pocket. “I’m gonna ram it so hard up Amanda Duck’s a...”
He steadied himself and then changed track.
“God help us if we’re not in time, Cissy. The Altarian Beasts are all headed in the same direction. And if they ever get together...” He shook his head despairingly. “Then may God have mercy on all of our grotty undernourished souls!”
Cissy thought he might have been over dramatising matters slightly, but his worried expression sent a shiver up her spine.
“What about Allison?”
“What?”
“What about Allison? Didn’t you notice anything odd about her?”
“Other than the fact that her head resembled a lump of doughy nougat without the hazelnuts in it?”
“How come she knew what was going on? What was all that about the bucket and spade?” Cissy narrowed her eyes in thought. “She can’t possibly be on the side of the New Empire, can she?”
“I haven’t got a clue...” Hogan shrugged. “But I’ve got a feeling there’s one or two surprises in store for us yet! If there’s one thing I’ve learnt it’s that nothing in life is ever quite as obvious as it first appears!”
Sergeant Partridge had one or two problems of his own. There were still twenty-odd elderly people missing in Greyminster, not to mention the small matter of several amorphous blobs slithering about the town. At that moment his overcoat filled the porch to the station as he stared at the shrivelled, hunched figure before the counter.
Mrs. Wainthrop! That was all he needed right now.
The old dear was pointing an accusatory finger at the abnormally patient Constable Jaye, speaking with the same croaky voice that she’d used on her last visit. Only this time the locution was more pronounced. Not by a great deal, it must be said. But just enough to suggest that Mrs. Wainthrop had been practising.
“I…want...ttto...seeee....Msssss...Doyle...now!”
Jack didn’t like that noise one bit. There was something wrong in its intonation. Something malevolent, unhealthy and blasphemous.
“Lock ’er up!” He stepped into the foyer, his powerful presence flooding the room. “If she wants t’ see ’er bloody friend so desperately, lock ’er up!”
“Yes, Sarge.” Jaye compliantly removed the hoop of keys from its rusted nail. “Come on then, Mrs. Wainthrop. We’ll go and visit your friend now.”
“Gooord…”
The constable led the way, Mrs. Wainthrop mutely following, her head cocked on one side so that she resembled a pigeon. She watched Jaye’s feet as though she was still learning how to walk. The self-locking door swung open with a clunk and the two of them disappeared into the corridor beyond.
Jack breathed down his nose despondently. Then he called out.
“Keep an eye on ’er, down there! I want to see what the old bat does when she gets what she wants...”
Patternoster Row. Cissy Doyle and Commander Hogan lurched cautiously between the terraces. There was a thump in the darkness, followed closely by a muffled “Nnngff...”
“The poor man...” Cissy crouched down, her knees cracking as she did so, pointlessly adjusting the collar of the figure lying prostrate across the flagstones. “He must be homeless...”
“Leave him alone, Cissy. He’s pissed!” Hogan flattened himself against the wall of number eight. Seconds later Cissy caught him up.
“He might have been homeless. Sometimes people are victims of circumstance on this world.”
“Not with an empty bottle of Vodka in his hand and vomit decorating his sweater!” They reached the door of number two before another short sojourn. “Use your eyes Cissy! They’re big enough bastards! You’re gonna need ’em in here!”
“He might have been homeless...” Cissy pouted. “Perhaps he found the bottle in a dustbin?”
“Along with the designer suit and the crocodile shoes?”
“You’re always bloody right, aren’t you? Well listen up Mr. Spaceman! This is MY planet and I should know what I’m talking about!”
Hogan waited patiently for the curt tirade to pass. Earth people could be so stubborn, even when they knew they were wrong. No, especially when they knew they were wrong.
“Cissy...” There was that patronising tone again. It grated on every nerve in Cissy’s body. “If we’re going to go inside then I need you to be alert!”
“How do you intend to get in? Osmose through the door?”
Hogan pushed down on the handle. The front door creaked open. It had been unlocked all day. No self-respecting burglar ever bothered with Patternoster Row. The place had a foreboding atmosphere about it at the best of times.
Ironically enough, whilst Hogan had been talking about being observant the drunkard several feet behind them had undergone a metamorphosis. The colour had drained from his flesh and dribbled away down the gutter, leaving only a liquified blob. It drew itself back into the shadow with the sort of slurping plop that a slug would make after having a hot bath.
“Okay? Eyes on full attention?” Hogan cast a grin at his companion. Cissy nodded demurely and swallowed away the bulk of her fear. “Then let’s get the job done and get out of here!”
And with that they disappeared into the dark bowels of number two, Patternoster Row.
The Greyminster Scrapbook Part Six
Let’s delve for one last time into the secret journal of Amanda Duck. A new optimism seems to have entered Amanda’s life since her previous entry.
December Eighth: Dear Journal, great news!! Slipped out yesterday to the chemist on High Street. Confirmed my suspicions this morning. I am pregnant! Going to give birth to a baby Duncan! Or a Duncaness!
Got so excited that when I snook back into the hospital I gave Mrs. Pootle a kiss on the forehead. Regardless of what the old battle-axe has said in the past, nothing can spoil this moment for me now.
Must talk to Duncan about this!!!!
We’ll get married in St. Oliver’s on the Grey where I was christened. Have to sort out the wedding arrangements. White might be hypocritical under the circumstances. Sort of murky grey is more appropriate.
So happy that even Mrs. Pootle can be invited, so long as she doesn’t start shouting during the ceremony or loose her teeth in the punch at the wedding breakfast or something.
This news has put an end to my problems once and for all. Whatever happened at Patternoster Row is unimportant now. Duncan is a wonderful man. On his wage we should be able to honeymoon in Paris! Can’t wait to let him know. The expression on his face will be brilliant!!
December Ninth: How Dare He?! How dare he suggest that I take the ‘Alternative Way Out?’ The BASTARD!! THE BASTARD!!!
These same two words were repeated all the way down the page. At the bottom there was one final entry.
He ought to marry me! He ought to ‘DO THE RIGHT THING’! I won’t take this sitting down!! I’m going to write a strong letter to my local MP. Malpractice has reared its ugly head here and I, Amanda Duck, am an honourable woman!!
The photocopy of this page was vandalised with Dr. O’Leary’s handwriting. Across the top words such as, ‘WHAT?’ were followed by numerous exclamation marks. The lower half contained phrases such as ‘Oh you do, do you!!? Well!! We’ll see about that!!’
We mustn’t forget that these copies of Amanda’s journal are now in Jack Partridge’s Scrapbook. Other important documents relate to this matter. These include two letters...a correspondence between Dr. O’Leary and Dr. Percival Strap, the senior executive in charge of the Greyminster Psychiatric Unit.
Dr. Duncan O’Leary PhD
(Private Office. Psychiatric and Neurological Disorders Wing.)
Greyminster Infirmary
Greyminster,
LANCS
Dec. 13th
Dear Dr. Strap,
Am writing to inform you of most urgent business. Have intercepted letter from patient 106B. (To whit, Amanda Hyacinth Duck.) Letter enclosed for your perusal. Please make sure that this potentially incriminating missive is NOT destroyed in an accidental and spontaneous but well-contained fire of some description.
Most important that the hospital suffers no further indignities from this woman. Must insist she be transferred to an isolation unit for the rest of her life. Recommend ‘The Somerset Institute for the Criminally Insane’ where she must be kept under constant supervision and allowed to talk with no one. This is for her own good.
This woman is obviously a danger to other patients. She has been fraternising openly with members of staff and now accuses me of ‘Making her with child.’ Me? A reputable and honest a doctor as one could ever hope to come across! This woman obviously has difficulty separating the truth from fiction. No one must believe a word she says. Please post warning of this to all her future appointments.
Also recommend she undergo a full course of ‘Convulsive Electric Shock Therapy.’ For her own good, you understand? Warn Dr. Wardle of the Somerset Institute NOT to put the voltage so high as to result in a horrific aneurysm. Like the last time. Please, don’t forget.
Yours expectantly,
Duncan O’Leary
Dr. Duncan O’Leary
Dr. O’Leary seems to have overlooked the fact that Amanda Duck couldn’t possibly have become pregnant through ‘Over Fraternisation’. This particular wing of the psychiatric unit was an ‘All Female Ward.’ However, a couple of days later, this letter appeared in Duncan’s In-Tray:
Sir Percival Strap.
(Head Administrator & Chief Surgeon)
Greyminster Infirmary
Dec. 15th
Doctor O’Leary,
Thank you for bringing this serious matter to my ‘Personal’ attention. Request Granted. Preparations for Amanda Duck’s departure from Greyminster Psychiatric Unit must be undertaken without delay.
Please ensure that this does not happen again. Lady patients must not be allowed to cavort with the other inmates. Next tim
e one gets out of control, your set-square and compasses will be confiscated accordingly. GET MY DRIFT?
Let us hear nothing further upon this particular matter.
Make sure you attend the ‘MEET’ this coming Saturday.
Sir Percival Strap
Sir Percival Strap.
(Great Boar)
Chapter Thirteen: The Terrible Secret of Patternoster Row
Darkness. A realm for thought. Hogan, flattened against the kitchen wall in the shape of a starfish, was asking himself questions. Such as:
“What am I doing in a kitchen that smells of talcum powder with a creature that resembles an anorexic crowbar?”
And:
“What’s going to happen with my family allowance now?”
The darkness hugged his face like a pillow. He could hear Cissy breathing carefully as she fumbled blindly round the cooker.
There was a crash as several copper-bottomed pans met the wooden floor with considerable force. It was closely followed by what sounded like a whispered, ‘Shit.’
“Right!” He reached a decision. “Get the job done. And when all this is over I’ll see what can be done about my bastard life!”
“What?” Cissy’s worried voice squeaked out of the blackness.
“Found the light switch yet?”
There was a clatter of some description, possibly pans being dislodged from Cissy’s toecaps. It was followed by somebody brushing an unseen object with their fingertips.
“Hold on...” A pause for drama, not that any was required.
Click! A blue line traced a permanent spiral into their retinas. A kamikaze fly conducted its last waltz to an electronic rhythm. After a fizzle and a brilliant white spark the insect’s corpse dropped to the floor with the tiniest thud.