by Brian Hughes
“No thank you, Mrs Lowry. I’m just, arhm…”
Mrs Lowry relieved him of his biscuity burden, topping his mug up with Tetley’s instead. Jack fumbled for his notepad, officiously licked his pen and flipped open the pages. “Right, now what was your mother wearin’ when y’ last saw ’er?”
“Ah, now that’d be ’er clothes.” As obvious as the statement was, Jack Partridge wrote it down along side the illustration he’d just completed of a Boeing 747. Most of the old folk who disappeared were generally clothed in their nightgowns. Occasionally one old biddy would have a glove was jammed firmly on their head.
“D’ you think she’ll be all roight, Sergeant?” Mrs Lowry asked with some concern. “Oi mean, it’s the first time she’s ever been away from home for longer than half an ’oir. Except of course for ’er visits to the potting shed.”
“And exactly ’ow long ’as she bin missin’?” The sergeant cocked an eyebrow.
“About thirty-foive minutes.”
Partridge’s bulbous nose twitched. Around his ankles numerous children were fighting. Mrs Lowry had heard of contraception. And then decided it was the ‘Sperm Of The Devil.’ If the holy pope had said it was evil, then it was. The fact that a celibate man had little room to offer advice on such matters held little truck with her.
“I’m afraid we can’t list her as missin’ yet. But I wouldn’t worry if I were you.” Jack arched his spine. “Old dears always turn up eventually. She’s probably wandered off somewhere. Reliving the haunting grounds of ’er youth.”
“Ya surely don’t think she’s gone back t’ Donegal, do ya?”
Fortunately at this point Dennis interrupted the downwardly spiralling conversation. He’d been growing more irate as he’d watched the wind batter the hydrangea against next door’s fence. When Constable Parkins had appeared from nowhere and had gazed through the window, a scarf of steam obscuring the view from his mug of Horlicks, Dennis had decided that enough was enough. He’d been a witness to what had happened and his mother bloody well hadn’t.
“Grandma was kidnapped!” With fists screwed up tightly he stomped across the room. Several pot mongrels rattled dangerously along the door lintel. “I saw it ’appen! Why won’t anyone believe me? Go and ask Mrs Barker! She was there!”
“Dennis, go to your room and recite your catechism.” Mrs Lowry glowered at him. “The Sergeant doesn’t want to ’ear your stupid stories!”
She turned to Jack with the knowledgeable air of a Catholic mother. “’Ee’s bin ’anging aroind with those ’ooligans off Crookley’s Estate again! Look at his eyes, Sergeant. ’Ee’s probably bin on heroin!”
“Mother, don’t be so bloody stupid!”
Margaret Lowry criss-crossed her shoulders, warding off the evil mutiny. “Dennis Moses Lowry? Oi’ve never ’eard such blasphemous words. Go and apologise to the holy father at once, young man. ’Ee’ll be spinnin’ on the wall if ’ee ’ears what you just said.”
“Grandma Jo was kidnapped by a dustbin, Mr Partridge.”
During his years on the force Jack had witnessed many unusual incidents. He’d often wondered whether Greyminster had been built on some sort of Fortean Spaghetti Junction.
“All right, young man. Let’s ’ave a description then.” With another pragmatic lick of his Biro, he stared at his notebook. “Dustbin you say?”
“Some sort of robot, Mr Partridge. With weird antennae.”
This description had a profound effect on the policeman. “It didn’t wear sun glasses and ’ave an affinity for chocolate ’Ob Nobs did it?”
Dennis paused. “Not that I know of. Why, is that important?”
“Not really...” Jack’s features relaxed into his normal collection of jowls. “Now then Dennis. P’raps y’ could show me where this abduction took place?”
Chapter Ten: The Creaky Trunk Once More Unbarred
Tucked away in one corner of our chronicler’s trunk is a hand-written book. Quite possibly the only work of its kind in the universe. Let’s take a look:
Nancy Skunk’s Guide to The Treatment and Rearing of Animals.
(Nancy had attempted to illustrate the book herself. The drawings are not worth reproducing, mostly consisting of cricket bats, pointed sticks and arrows indicating which direction the instrument was to be applied.)
Shampooing Hedgehogs: A pair of thick leather gloves, a toothbrush and a bench-vice are required. Ensure that the hedgehog is upside down, allowing the blood to flow to its brain and render it flaccid.
Individual spines should be polished using emery paper.
Teeth should be removed from the hedgehog’s mouth with pliers. Allow them to stand over night in a glass of Steradent. By morning the gums should have shrivelled enough to allow each molar to be super-glued back on.
Catching Wild Chaffinches: Chaffinches have a fondness for red cabbage. The best way to catch these aggressive birds is to disguise yourself as a Lancashire Hot Pot in the centre of an allotment with a baseball bat.
Chastising Shrews: The pigmy shrew is a vicious bastard. If it is ever to be domesticated a firm hand must be taken from the outset. From my experience a large frying pan is adequate. Show no mercy. Always remember that a dead shrew is preferable to an annoying one.
Quickly stumbling onwards, the further we progress through the book the terser these handy hints become. For example, by page 145 the illustrations have almost taken over completely, the words now reduced to mere captions. Such as:
‘Smacking a budgie,’ ‘Flossing an alligator’s teeth using old wires,’ ‘Punishing snails,’ ‘Beating elephants,’ ‘Forcing aardvarks to mate,’ and ‘Teaching pipistrelle bats a lesson in manners.’
Perhaps it would be best if we closed this book and moved on. Exactly how useful this form of conservationism might be is questionable. I wouldn’t want any influential child reading this book to get the wrong idea.
Beneath this work there was a video. Let’s have a look at that instead.
“Dennis Lowry & Grandma Jo’s Guide To The Night-life Of Greyminster”
The opening shot consisted of Dennis in the potting shed. The camera work was of an extremely shaky nature. The ill-fitting music, a Val Doonican song from Grandma Jo’s personal collection, was brought to a halt with a scratch as Grandma Jo lifted the needle. After several false starts Dennis began.
“This video is intended to show how little there is for a teenager round Greyminster to do at night and ’ow come there are no youth clubs or arcades and why are the street lamps round the municipal park all broken an’ don’t come on apart from at 3 o’clock in the afternoon an’…”
“Dennis?”
“An’ why doesn’t the council build some sort o’ skateboard rink with massive, great (Here Dennis struggled for appropriate words) big…curved…lumps o’ wood that you can go up an’ down on, and ’ow come…”
“Dennis?”
“What?”
“Do your flies up! I don’t think Councillor Ordenshaw’d wanna see that. It’d probably put ’er off ’er tea!”
Dennis fumbled with his flies, attempting to continue as though nothing had happened. The lens of the camera had by this point steamed up.
“An’ what’s the point in ’avin’ a library when it closes at six, and ’ow come when you’re sixteen years old you’re old enough to work and clean the pig out and change your sister’s nappy but you can’t go into the pub, an’ why don’t the cou…”
The scene of the potting shed changed into one of a street. Presumably nobody had told Grandma Jo about the three-second overlap between shots.
The yellow hut interior was replaced by a close up of Dennis’ head, bobbing in and out of focus down Patternoster Row.
“…buggerin’ waste of good ground. Look at this plot. Just the right size for a disco that’d put an end to the crime round ’ere!”
“’Old on a minute Dennis. I can’t see where the ’Ell I’m treading.”
“Just try and keep up, Grandma.�
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“God Streuth, I’m trying me damnedest! I just don’t wanna put me foot in sommet a dog’s done.”
Unfortunately at that moment, Dennis’ grandmother stepped on a loose section of ground. The following few seconds were erratic, the in-built titler throwing up the words ‘Ruth Lowry’s SeKret Film OFF Mom and Dad in Bed.’
The mayhem ended with a violent smash followed by noisy static. With a flicker the film began once more, this time the frame being occupied by Mr Jordan’s ruddy features and the head of a screwdriver. Mr Jordan drew in a deep breath.
“Dodgy things y’ see, cameras. Can’t get the parts.” His face receded and the lens tried to focus on a fly. “It’d probably be cheaper to replace the ’ole buggerin’ lot. Tell you what, mate. Leave it with me for a few days and I’ll see what I can do.”
There followed several scenes of Mr Jordan and his wife on holiday in Brighton. Revolting scenes including the television repair man hoisting his enormous girth around the hotel bedroom. He was completely nude apart from a smile and a pair of tartan socks. Towards the end of these romantic interludes Mr Jordan hefted a football towards the camera, resulting in a further violent smash.
The final scene of Grandma Jo and Dennis’ video consisted of their two faces breathing onto the lens and steaming it up. Dennis was the first to break the silence.
“Is it workin’ now, Grandma?”
“The little red light’s on. Better put it back on the shelf, Dennis. Before your mother notices it gone.”
And that was that. Time to close the trunk once more and hurry on.
Chapter Eleven: A Group of Ecological Protesters at the Closure of Civilisation
October the Seventeenth, 1999. Greyminster smouldered, its narrow streets no more inhabitable now than an archaeological dig. Gone were the recognisable terraces that had once wound up the fells like the roots of an oak tree. And inn their place there was only rubble.
The town hall stood pale and blue, almost scribbled. Its dome had collapsed with the finality of a smoker’s lung, coughing smudges of smoke towards the firmament. Factory chimneys that had once surveyed the town now bowed remorsefully, mourning the death of their industrial heritage.
Over the panorama an unnatural silence had drawn its cloak.
“What the bloody ’Ell ’appened?” Spike scratched his head.
“We overshot our landing by a fortnight, that’s all.” Nancy snuffled, felt the sting of smoke in her nostrils and pushed her hands in her pockets. “C’mon, Gypsy. It’s only an ’op, skip and jump back ’ome from ’ere.”
“What?” Spike snarled in his companion’s direction. “You can’t be serious? You don’t expect me t’ go back and face whatever did this t’ the world, do y’?”
“Why not?” Nancy unturfed a brick from the step of her caravan. “It would’ve ’appened anyhow, so there’s no point moanin’ about it.”
Spike studied his desolate surroundings. Rats the size of coypus were fighting over an abandoned pram. There was the post office, which under normal circumstances would have been hidden by Crookley’s Grove. Today it was as clear as a homeopath’s medicine cabinet. There was the war memorial that had hung its head in shame since World War One. It didn’t have much of a head to hang now, just a jagged ruff of copper showing how cheap the council had been.
“I’m not goin’ back!” Spike screwed up his eyes as though somehow that might help.
“I don’t know what you’re making such a fuss about.” Nancy grabbed the door handle.
“Look at the bloody state of it!” Spike swung his arm across the devastation. “What caused all this?”
“Nobody knows exactly.” Nancy wrinkled her nose. “It probably ’ad something to do with the Tree Frog’s song. Anyhow, you’ll find out in a couple of days. C’mon Mr Gypsy. Time t’ go!”
“Over my dead body!” Spike folded his arms defiantly across his mohair sweater. A foolish manouvre as it happened.
“If that’s what you want…” Before he had time to retract his statement Nancy had drawn the ray gun from her apron pocket, aimed it squarely between Spike’s eyes and squeezed the trigger.
Spike was lifted from his feet and flung across the road. Moments later, Nancy’s pigtails bobbed back in through the caravan’s door, Spike’s unconscious body across her shoulder.
The door closed behind her. A hum, a flash, and the rickety craft disappeared.
Across the splintered tarmac, amongst the bricks that had once been the Crookley Retirement Home, there was the wink of a prism.
Sarah Kingdom tugged the plaster from her hair, then lowered her cracked binoculars. Having blinked the dust from her lashes, she fumbled open a notepad and scrawled inside it with a crumbling match stalk. Little things she’d never appreciated before, such as ballpoint pens, were now luxuries in this new world. The match snapped, somersaulting through the gloom.
Filled with despair the ageing hippy swept the tresses from her forehead and left a smear of cinders across her brow.
“’Scuse me, dear? Could y’ tell me where Greyminster’s got to?”
Grandma Jo stared down on the canopy of curls and frowned. Sarah Kingdom wasn’t a terribly attractive woman, it must be said. The torn Indian sari and the wilted daisies behind her ear showed that she was trying, however, and for Grandma Jo, that was enough.
“I’ve bin away y’ see?” Grandma Jo continued hopefully. “And things round ’ere seem to ’ave changed. P’raps you could direct me to the taxi rank?”
“It’s over there! Where all those flattened black rectangles are.” Another smudge of mascara was added to Sarah’s left eye as she tried to remove a tear.
“I ’ope you don’t mind me asking, dear, but what exactly ’appened? My name’s Josephine by the way. You can call me Grandma Jo, if you like.”
An ominous shadow washed across the mountains of slag. It chilled their bones. Sarah shuddered as a rumble growled along the cobbles, bringing ticker tapes of brick dust down from the girders. It was a rumble that seemed to start in the belly of the fells.
“I’m Sarah.” One gangly hand was extended optimistically towards the pensioner. “Sarah Kingdom. I’m a member of P.E.W.K. That’s an…an…oh, what’s that word Bobby’s always using?”
“An acronym?” Another rumble made Grandma Jo look up. This time the thunder was more vociferous. It rattled the loose pebbles beneath her boots.
“Acronym? Yes, that’s the word. Have you met Bobby then?”
Grandma Jo shook her head.
“Not to bother. I’m sure you will. He’s only young, but he’s a very good leader. P.E.W.K. incidentally stands for, ’Protesters and Eco-Warriors against, against…”
“Kornflakes?” suggested Grandma Jo.
Sarah’s turn to shake her head.
“Whatever it was, I’m on special watch duty. We’re an underground movement.” She cast her lugubrious eyes about the darkening landscape. “It sort of puts the runway protests at Manchester airport into perspective.”
Onward marched the dreadful shadow, trickling ghoulishly through the no-man’s land of Crookley’s Estate.
A cutting wind that had tagged along since the mines of Siberia rushed around in its wake.
“Come on, Grandma Jo.” Sarah checked around worriedly and then grabbed Grandma Jo’s wrinkled hand. “It’s coming back. We’d better move.”
October the Third, 1999. Just over a fortnight before the events of the previous section. At this point Greyminster town hall was still standing, its labyrinth of chambers milling with servants of the crown. Women in tight skirts and heels carried bundles of officious papers. They clattered noisily from one prefab to the next.
Local councils are excellent when it comes to gathering taxes. Miss one payment by forty minutes and the first that you’ll know about it is when the postman delivers your penalty. A missive describing the events in court, the amount you were fined, how you were hung, drawn and quartered, and when to expect the bailiffs round.
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When it comes to paying it back, however, the poverty stricken can rest assured that the ever vigilant team will have been replaced by misanthropic drunkards. The self-proclaimed, ‘Great and the Good,’ who spend their hours between local hostelries criticising the underclass whose lives they’ve blighted.
Greyminster Civic Centre does, of course, have other functions. Take this door for example. An oak panelled affair with a gleaming name plate.
‘Gordon Thompson. Lord Mayor Of Greyminster Borough.’
This is the Greyminster Planning Committee. The snug where the future of Lancashire’s Heritage is determined.
“Gentlemen?” Gordon Thompson placed the Bakewell tart down on the plate and threw himself back into his Queen Anne chair. “Let us commence our business.”
He surveyed the platter of tasty morsels that the bald-headed butler had brought in.
“Mr Barker’s suggestion of an abattoir at the rear of Blackmoore’s Infants ’as been noted. Permission for its construction will go ahead, if we’re all agreed?”
Apparently not everybody was. Gerald Talbot, acting officer for the Blackmoore Constituency, pulled a newspaper from his crumpled jacket.
“Your ’Onour? The Greyminster Chronicle has raised concerns about the screams of cattle distracting the children. Questions ’ave also been asked regarding Mr Barker’s Meat Suppliers in connection with this matter.”